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SCHOOL DIALOGUES: 



A COLLECTION OF EXERCISES 



PARTICULARLY 



DESIGNED FOE THE USE OF SCHOOLS 



BY CHARLES NORTHEND, A. M. 
11 

AUTHOR OF AMERICAN SPEAKER, COMMON SCHOOL BOOK-KEEPING, AND 
YOUN& COMPOSER 



SYRACUSE: 
PUBLISHED BY L. W. HALL. 

NEW-YORK: A. S. BARNES & CO. 

BOSTON: W. J. REYNOLDS & CO. 

PORTLAND : SANBORN & CARTER. 

1848. 



/A\ 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by 

CHARLES NORTHEND, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



STEREOTYPED BY 

GEORGE A. CURTIS; 

NEW ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDERY, 
BOSTON. 



REMARKS. 

Every effort which shall tend to the rational enjoy- 
ment or improvement of the young should be regarded 
as a public favor. It has, in some degree, been an error 
in our schools, that so little attention has been directed 
towards providing pupils with those exercises which 
may afford amusement, as well as impart instruction. 
In many of the daily performances of the school-room, 
there must be a degree of formality and precision which, 
at times, becomes irksome. If, however, a teacher 
would promote and cherish a happy and cheerful state 
of feeling with his pupils, he must study to blend the 
more agreeable and pleasing exercises with those which 
are less attractive, and which require more close appli- 
cation. 

One of the most amusing and profitable of the occa- 
sional exercises of the school-room is the rehearsal of 
dialogues. When properly attended to, it may be in- 
strumental of a good influence over all school perform- 
ances, and especially reading and defining ; — for, to 
rehearse effectually, one must know how to read well, 
and this implies a thorough and clear understanding of 
the language used. And if exercises of this kind are 
beneficial in the school-room, may they not be equally 
so at the fireside'? In what way can the young spend 
a portion of their time so profitably as in the rehearsal 
or reading of familiar dialogues ? 



IV REMARKS. 

The great favor with which the American Speaker 
has been received encourages the compiler to believe 
that a volume composed exclusively of dialogues would 
meet with public approval ; and in accordance with this 
belief, he has prepared this book. In its preparation he 
has endeavored to select such dialogues as contain good 
sentiments, and such as will have a salutary influence 
over the minds of the young. A few exercises have 
been used whose chief tendency is to illustrate individ- 
ual peculiarities. 

As a general thing, the exercises will be found suffi- 
ciently short for school purposes ; and such as are some- 
what long combine so many characters as will avoid 
undue effort on the part of learners, and prevent a tedi- 
um on the part of hearers. 

With the earnest hope that this volume may subserve 
the cause of education, and contribute to the profit and 
pleasure of the young, it is most respectfully commended 
to the kind consideration of teachers and pupils. 

Salem, Dec. 1, 1848. 



CONTENTS. 

No. , Authors Page. 

1. Pride, Parley's Magazine, 7 

2. Deportment, 9 

3. Order, Anon., 10 

4. Dancing, " 11 

5. About Going to School, 13 

6. Kindness Recommended, 15 

7. Self-interest, Berquin, 16 

8. Physiognomy, Anon., 20 

9. Hamlet and Horatio, Shakspeare, .... 23 

10. Hard to Please, Miss Edgeworth, . . 25 

11. Charles II. and William Penn, Weems, 28 

12. Light Conversation with a Heavy Man, . Anon., 30 

13. The Doctor and his Patient, C. Ticknor, .... 32 

14. Gesler and Tell, Knowles, 34 

15. False Pride, Anon., 36 

16. Equality, Miss Edgeworth, . . 38 

17. Learning and Usefulness, Anon., 41 

18. The Two Robbers, Aikin, 42 

19. The Evil Adviser, Goodrich, 44 

20. The Beer Trial, Temp. Dialogues, . 48 

21. Yankeeism, E. L. Blanchard, . 49 

22. The Monster of Many Names, Temp. Dialogues, . 51 

23. Doing because Others do, J. G. Adams, ... 54 

24. The Indian Doctor, Fitch Poole, .... 58 

25. The News Dealer, Anon., 65 

26. Nobility/ Miss Edgeworth, . . 67 

27. Fortune Telling, Anon., 70 

28. Children's Wishes, Mrs. Gilman, ... 73 

29. Choice of Countries, " ... 74 

30. Why Alexander was called Great, .... Anon., 76 

31. Home, B. Cornwall, ... 78 

32. Choice of Hours, Mrs. Gilman, ... 79 

33. Woman — Account Current, Anon., 80 

34. Children's Preferences, " 81 

35. The Four Wishes, Miss A. Cutte*, . . 82 

36. Questions and Answers, Montgomery, ... 86 

37. Choice of Occupations, Anon., 87 

38. What we Love, " 89 

39. The Homes of Earth, » 92 

40. The Seasons, " 95 

41. What is most Beautiful, /. Lumbar d, ... 97 

42. The Temperance Pledge, Temp. Dialogues, . 99 

1* 



VI CONTENTS. 

No. Authors. Page. 

43. The Little Philosopher, Day, 101 

44. How to tell Bad News, Anon., 104 

45. Metaphysics, " 105 

46. Fortune's Frolic, Allingham, .... 107 

47. The Servant become Master, " .... Ill 

48. Uncharitableneso, Gospel Teacher, . .113 

49. About Laughter, H. Bacon, .... 115 

50. Fashion, Christian Freeman, . 118 

51. The Magic Lamp, H. Bacon, .... 121 

52. Story Reading, Anon., 123 

53. All for Good Order, D. P. Page, ... 124 

54. Scene from the Poor Gentleman, Colman, 134 

55. First of April, Anon., 140 

56. True and False Philanthropy, " 143 

57. Captain Tackle and Jack Bowlin, 146 

58. Prince Henry and Falstaff, Shakspeare, .... 150 

59. Learning to Write, Foster, 153 

60. Truth-telling, Mrs. Sawyer, ... 157 

61. Be Obliging, 164 

62. Mrs. Ingot's Ball, Lady's Book, . . . 165 

63. Jonathan and Simon, L. Dame, 168 

64. The Two Students, " 171 

65. The Colonists, Aikin, 174 

66. The Soft Answer, T. S. Arthur, ... 177 

67. Idleness and Usefulness, Merry's Museum, . 182 

68. The Tent Scene between Cassius and Bru- 

tus, Shakspeare, .... 189 

69. The Deceiver Detected, Merry's Museum, . 193 

70. Hunks and Blithe, Andros, 198 

71. Unfounded Prejudices, Aikin, 206 

72. The Actors, Shakspeare, .... 213 

73. The Student, Farmer, and Minister, . . . Anon., 217 

74. Start Fair ; or, Don't be too Positive, . . . Fitch Pooh, .... 222 

75. Lochiel's Warning, Campbell, 225 

76. Pedantry, Anon., 226 

77. Gentleman and Irish Servant, 233 

78. Frenchman and Tutor, 235 

79. The Fancy Dress Dejeune, Dickens, 237 

80. Circumstances alter Cases, Anon., 239 

81. Interview between Sam Weller and his 

Father, Dickens, 242 

82. The Bottle Conjurer, 244 

83. Scene from the Rivals Sheridan, 249 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



DIALOGUE 1. 
PRIDE. 



Raymond. I cannot conceive, Oliver, what you mean, 
by calling Harrington the first scholar in school. 

Oliver. Surely he is the first scholar, Raymond. 
Who so correct in every lesson, and so ready in all the 
exercises ? 

Raymond. Ready enough, to be sure; but he is not 
always at the head of his class. I am there quite as 
often as he is. 

Oliver. Yes, Raymond; you get there sometimes, 
when, during the recital, you take a sly peep at your 
book, or have your lesson written out on your slate, or a 
bit of paper. 

Raymo?id. Who says I do so? 

Oliver. Who says so? Why, don't we all see you? 
We do not like to be called tell-tales, or we should men- 
tion the matter to the teacher. It was really odd to 
hear you mistake the answer the other day, and we 
could not help laughing when the master said you 
would have done grandly, had it happened to be the 
next question. Harrington got up that day, and he is 
not very likely to lose his place, I think. 

Raymond. That signifies nothing. It does not prove 
that Harrington is the first scholar. He is by no means 
much of a gentleman. 

Oliver. A school-boy hardly pretends to be very 
much of a gentleman ; but Harrington is a very gentle- 
manly school-boy. Not one amongst us is so truly kind 
and polite. He thinks of us all before he thinks of him- 
self, and gives up everything he likes best, to please and 
oblige us. There is not a boy in school, unless it may 
be you, Raymond, but what loves Harrington. 



8 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Raymond. Neither does that prove that he is a gen- 
tleman, or gentlemanly. Look at his clothes. — do look 
at his clothes ! They were never made by a tailor ; they 
don't set as my clothes set. 

Oliver. That 's a good one ! As if the set of the 
clothes made the gentleman. 

Raymond. I did not mean the set alone ; but Har- 
rington's clothes are coarse, and sometimes even patched. 
Now look at my clothes. I wear the finest cloth in 
school ; — and I carry a watch, too. 

Oliver. And so you are the most of a gentleman, and 
the first scholar 7 Hey, Raymond ? 

Raymond. I said no such thing: — but I heartily 
despise a patch, and everybody who wears a patch ; and 
I always will despise them. 

Olive?-. Well done ! Then I suppose yon heartily 
despise me, and all the rest of the boys. But I don't 
care. Nobody can play much without having a patch 
now and then. Shall we go to play now, Raymond % 

Raymond. No, I am not going to play. I have no 
time to play ; but your dear friend Harrington has time 
for everything. 

Oliver. That is true, though you speak so jeeringly ; 
and it is because he takes care of his minutes. The 
master told us the other day, that if we took care of our 
minutes, we should have time for everything. He said 
— "Drops make the ocean, minutes make the years," 
and I shall try to remember it. 

Raymond. You can remember what you like. I 
don't want to remember anything that the master says, 
or that you say, — or your friend Harrington, either. 

Oliver. Come, Raymond, I am sure I did not mean 
to make you fretful. Do let us go to the play-ground. 

Raymond. No, indeed ! not 1. You don't catch me 
playing with boys who wear patched clothes. 

Oliver. Well, if you will not go I must leave you. I 
trust it will not be long before you will be convinced 
that fine clothes do not make a gentleman, and that real 
goodness and worth may exist under patched clothes, as 
well as under the most elegant broadcloth. Remember 
that worth makes the man, — the want of it the fellow. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. \) 

DIALOGUE II. 
DEPORTMENT. 

Charles. Good-morning, friend Amos; I am glad to 
see yon, for I have been thinking abont something, and 
should like to know how you feel about the same. 

Amos. Well, friend Charles, you and I agree on most 
subjects, and perhaps we shall on that Avhich now 
troubles you. What have you been thinking about? 

Charles. Why,' I have been thinking that our teach- 
ers say too much respecting onr conduct out of school. 
If we behave well while in school, — study onr lessons 
diligently, recite accurately, and obey the rules of the 
school, — I think that is enough, and we ought to be left 
to do as we please when we are out of school. 

Amos. I do not know that I shall agree with you on 
that point : our teachers wish us to behave well every- 
where, and at all times, and they advise us to do so 
because they think it will make us better and happier. 
What are some of the things about which you think 
they say too much ? 

Charles. Why, when we are in the streets, they wish 
us to be orderly and civil; to use no language that we 
should be unwilling to have our mothers hear; to an- 
swer every one respectfully and politely, and not to run 
after carriages. 

Amos. You consider these as hardships, do you, 
Charles? If you do I cannot agree with you, for I think 
they are all designed for our good, and I hope you will 
change your views. I do not think that our teachers 
wish anything of us that will injure us. Now, tell me 
honestly, Charles, if you think they have been unreason- 
able in their requests ? If we do just as they wish, will 
it not promote our welfare ? 

Charles. Well, really, Amos, I cannot say that they 
wish us any harm, or that they make unreasonable re- 
quests; but I can say that I like to do as I please when I 
am out of school. 

Amos. Yes, Charles, we often wish to do as we 
please ; but ought it not to please us to do what is right ? 
If so, we can please our teachers and parents at the 



10 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

same time. Ought we not to try to be good, and do 
good? 

Charles. Certainly, I agree to that : but then I want 
to have my own way. 

Amos. Very well, you can have your own way; and 
if that way is a good way, you will be happy in it ; but 
if it is a bad one, you will be unhappy yourself, and 
make others so too. There is Tom Lawless, who has 
his own way to any extent ; he uses wicked and improp- 
er language, runs after carriages in the street, answers 
every one who speaks to him, abruptly and uncivilly, 
and no one likes him ; now, do you wish to imitate his 
example ? 

Charles. No, I cannot say that I do, in all respects ; 
certainly I would not use improper language. 

Amos. I am glad to hear you say so much, Charles ; 
but do you think it right to run after carriages'? is it not 
both dangerous and uncivil? And then as to answering 
people who ask us questions, is it not just as well to 
say " I don't know, sir," as to say plain, blunt " No"? 
Do you not think a little politeness is desirable? 

Charles. Well, Amos, I have never thought much 
about the subject before, and, upon the whole, I think 
you are about right. I shall try to walk in the right way; 
and if I try, I think I shall succeed. I am glad we have 
had this talk, and I thank you for what you have said. 
I think the more exactly we regard the wants and re- 
quirements of our teachers, the better and happier we 
shall be : then our teachers and friends will be pleased, 
and you and I will be better friends than ever. 



DIALOGUE III. 
ABOUT ORDER. 

Mary. I wish you would lend me your thimble, Sa- 
rah, for I can never find mine when I want it. 

Sarah. And why can you not find it, Mary ? 

Mary. I am sure I cannot tell ; but if you do not 
choose to lend me yours, I can borrow of somebody else. 

Sarah. 1 am willing to lend it to you, but I should 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 11 

like to have you tell me why you always come to me to 
borrow, when you have lost anything. 

Mary. Because you never lose your things, and al- 
ways know where to find them. 

Sarah. And how, think you, do I always know 
where to find my things? 

Mary. How can I tell ? If I knew, I might some- 
times contrive to find my own. 

Sarah. I will tell you the secret, if you will hear it. 
I have a set place for everything ; and after I have done 
using a thing, I always put it in its proper place, and 
never leave it to be thrown about and lost. 

Mary. I never can find time to put my things away ; 
and who wants, as soon as she has used a thing, to have 
to run and put it away, as if one's life depended upon 
it? 

Sarah. Your life does not depend upon it, Mary, but 
your convenience does; and, let me ask, how much more 
time will it take to put a thing in its proper place, than 
to hunt after it when lost, or borrow of your friends? 

Mary. Well, I will never borrow of you again, you 
may depend upon it. 

Sarah. Why, you are not affronted, I hope ? 

Mary. No, but I am ashamed, and am determined 
before night to have a place for everything, and to keep 
everything in its place. 



DIALOGUE IV. 
ABOUT DANCING. 

Henry. Tom, when are you going to begin dancing ? 
You will be so old, in a short time, that you will be 
ashamed to be seen taking your five steps. 

Thomas. I don't know, Henry, as I shall begin at 
all. Father says he don't care a fig whether I learn to 
jump any better than I do now ; and as I am to be a 
tradesman, he is determined, at present, to keep me at 
the reading and writing schools. 

Henry. That must be very dull and dry for you. 
And what good will all such learning do you, so long as 
you make the awkward appearance you do at present? 



12 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

I am surprised at your father's folly. So, because you 
are to be a tradesman, you are not to learn the graces ! 
I expect to learn a trade, too. But my papa says I shall 
first learn the dancing trade ; and then, if I never learn 
any other, I shall make my way through the world well 
enough. 

Thomas. I don't know which discovers the most 
folly, your father, or mine. Old folks certainly know 
more than young ones ; and my father is much the older 
man. 

Heiiry. I don't believe that doctrine. There is Jack 
Upstart, knows more than his father and mother both. 
And he is but nineteen yet, and he says the present 
generation, under five and twenty years of age, knows 
more than fifteen generations that have gone before us. 

Thomas. I don't know how that is; but father early 
taught me this proverb — "Young folks think old folks 
are fools ; but old folks know young ones to be so." But 
to return to schools. Pray how far have you gone in 
your arithmetic? 

Henry. Arithmetic ! I have not begun that yet ; 
nor shall I till I have completed dancing. That is a 
dry study ; I know I shall never like it. 

Thomas. Writing I suppose you are fond of? 

Henry. I can't say I am, Thomas. I once had a 
tolerable fondness for it, but since I began dancing, I 
have held it in utter contempt. It may be well enough 
for a person to write a legible hand; but it is no mark 
of a gentleman to write elegantly. 

Thomas. You would have a gentleman spell well, I 
suppose ? 

Henry. I would have him spell so well as to be un- 
derstood ; and that is enough for any man. 

Thomas. What say you to grammar and geography ? 

Henry. Don't name them, I entreat you. There is 
nothing I so much abhor, as to hear your learned school- 
boys jabbering over their nouns, their pronouns, their 
werbs, their parables, their congregations, their imper- 
fections, and confluctions. I'll tell you what, Tom; 
I had rather be master of one hornpipe, than to under- 
stand all the grammars which have been published since 
the art of printing was discovered. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 13 

Thomas. I am sorry, friend Henry, to hear you 
speak so contemptuously of the solid sciences. I hope 
you don't mean to neglect them entirely. If you do, 
you must expect to live in poverty, and die the derision 
and scorn of all wise men. 

Henry. Never fear that. Thomas. I shall take care 
of myself, I warrant you. You are much mistaken in 
your prognostications. Why, there 's Tom Fiddlefaddle, 
who can't even write his name ; and as for reading, he 
scarcely knows B from a broom-stick ; and yet he can 
dance a minuet with any master of the art in Christen- 
dom. And the ladies all love him dearly. He is invited 
to their balls, routs, assemblies, card-parties, &c., &c., 
and he diverts them like any monkey. 

Thomas. And does he expect it will be the same 
through life? How is he to be maintained when he be- 
comes old ? and how is he to amuse himself after he is 
unable to dance, as you say he can neither read nor 
write ? 

Henry. Why, in fact, I never thought of those things 
before. I confess there seems to be some weight in your 
queries. I don't know but it will be best for me to spare 
a day or two in a week from my dancing, to attend to the 
branches you are pursuing. 

Thomas. You can make but little progress in that 
way. My teacher always told me that the solid sciences 
should be secured first. He says that when his scholars 
have once entered a dancing school, their heads are so 
full of balls, assemblies, minuets, and cotillons, that he 
can never find room for anything else. 

Henry. Well, friend Thomas, I am not certain but 
yon are right : at all events, I am resolved to reflect seri- 
ously upon what you have said. 



DIALOGUE V. 
ABOUT GOING TO SCHOOL. 

Caroline. Good-evening, Elizabeth; how do you do? 
Elizabeth. My health is very good, Caroline ; but there 
is one thing that troubles me. 

Caroline. And what is that, dear Elizabeth? 

2 



14 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Elizabeth. Why, mother wants me to go to school 
all the time, and I don't like to go : I want to stay at 
home, and. play with sister Ann. 

Caroline. But do you consider what a privilege it is 
to have a good school to go to, and to be allowed to go? 

Elizabeth. I never considered much about it; and if 
I had, I should not have regarded it as a privilege, I am 
sure. 

Caroline. But only think how you would feel, to 
grow up, and be an ignorant woman ! 

Elizabeth. Why, I should like to have learning well 
enough, if I could get it without studying. 

Caroline. Remember, Elizabeth, that you can obtain 
nothing worth having, without an effort; and is not 
learning worth some effort ? 

Elizabeth. That is just what mother says ; and she 
says, too, that we have better schools than children had 
when she was young. 

Caroline. That is true ; but did she ever tell you 
how much better ? 

Elizabeth. No; she has never said, much about it. 

Caroline. Well, I cannot tell you fully, now ; but it 
is certain, that we have better schoolhouses, and better 
books, and many other things which seem better ; for I 
often hear father say how much the schools have im- 
proved since he went to school. He says everything is 
made so easy and pleasant now, that he is almost afraid 
we don't have to work hard enough to get our learning. 

Elizabeth. Really, Caroline, I believe I have not 
considered the subject as I ought. 

Caroline. Then I hope you will do so for the future, 
and when you go to school, be sure to go in season. Our 
teacher does not like to have us tardy. 

Elizabeth. I can't see any harm in being a little late, 
occasionally. 

Caroline. Why, Elizabeth, how can you say so? 
Just consider a moment. If you go to school late, you 
interrupt the scholars, and they all look up to see who 
the tardy one is. And, besides, our teacher says that 
we ought to form the habit of being punctual in the per- 
formance of every duty. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 15 

Elizabeth. I begin to see that I have felt wrong, and 
acted wrong; and this very evening, I resolve not to be 
tardy again this term. 

Caroline. 1 am glad to hear you speak so, my dear 
Elizabeth, and I trust you will be able to keep your good 
resolution ; I hope, also, you will consider the impor- 
tance of being constant, as well as seasonable. Our 
teacher says we cannot learn much, if we are absent 
half of the time; and we may know this is true, by no- 
ticing how poorly those in our class recite who are often 
absent. 

Elizabeth. Well, I will try not to be absent again. 
I am really obliged to you for the good hints you have 
given me this evening, and I hope they will make me a 
better and happier girl. Good-night, dear Caroline. 

Caroline. Good-night. 



DIALOGUE VI. 
KINDNESS RECOMMENDED. 

Jack. Good-morning, Solomon. 

Solomon. Good-morning Jack : I see you are going 
about with Isaac Wilson, and the people say you have 
come to live with him a while, and try to make some- 
thing of him. 

Jack. I expect to stay there till my father begins his 
haying and harvest. 

Solomon. You will find Isaac very much like the 
jockey's horse, that had but two failings. 

Jack. What were those two? 

Solomo?i. One was, the horse was bad to catch. 

Jack. What was the other? 

Solomon. When they had caught him, he was good 
for nothing. 

Jack. I hope Isaac is not so bad as the horse you tell 
of; he will make a very decent man yet, if he will only 
try, in earnest. 

Solomon. Ay, there is the difficulty, my good fel- 
low; — who can change that bag of sand into a smart 
boy? 



16 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Jack. I should hardly think that any young lad 
would be such a dolt as not to try to make himself re- 
spectable in the world. 

Solomon. You might as well teach a fish to eat grass 
in the fields, as to make anything of that lazy fellow. 

Jack. We should be very careful, Solomon, about 
speaking evil of our neighbors. 

Solomon. Well, I know it is wrong ; but I do not 
know that we can say anything good about Isaac 
Wilson. Every one talks against him, and says the 
same that I do. He is so bad that one cannot speak too 
harshly of him. 

Jack. But I think the true way is to keep silent, if 
we cannot speak well of one ; certainly silence is better 
than slander. 

Solomon. I think there is truth in what you say, 
and I feel that I have done wrong. I am sorry for my 
thoughtlessness, and am resolved to be more careful for 
the future. 

Jack. I am truly glad to hear you say so, Solomon. 
Perhaps, the very reason Isaac is so bad as you repre- 
sent is, that every one has been against him, and treated 
him as though he was really a worthless fellow. Now, 
I intend to treat him kindly, and, if possible, induce him 
to respect himself; and if you and others will aid me, I 
hope he may yet become a happy and useful member of 
society. At any rate, let us do right, and treat him as 
we ought, and then we shall not be in fault if he persists 
in his misconduct. 

Solomon. I will certainly do all I can to aid you. 
Good-evening. 

Jack. Good-evening. 



DIALOGUE VII. 
SELF INTEREST. 

Or, Where there 's a Will, there 's a Way. 

Derby. Good-morning, neighbor Scrape well. I have 
half a dozen miles to ride to-day, and should be ex- 
tremely obliged if you would lend me your gray mare. 

Scrapewell. I should be happy, friend Derby, to oblige 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 17 

you ; but am under the necessity of going immediately 
to the mill with three bags of corn. My wife wants the 
meal this very morning. 

Der. Then she must want it still, for I can assure 
you the mill does not go to-day. I heard the miller tell 
Will Davis that the water was too low. 

Scrape. You don't say so? That is bad indeed; for 
in that case I shall be obliged to gallop off to town for 
the meal. My wife would comb my head for me, if I 
should neglect it. 

Der. I can save you this journey, for I have plenty 
of meal at home, and will lend your wife as much as she 
wants. 

Scrape. Ah ! neighbor Derby, I am sure your meal 
will never suit my wife. You can't conceive how whim- 
sical she is. 

Der. If she were ten times more whimsical than she 
is, I am certain she would like it; for you sold it to me 
yourself, and you assured me it was the best you ever 
had. 

Scrape. Yes, yes, that 's true, indeed : I always have 
the best of everything. You know, neighbor Derby, that 
no one is more ready to oblige a friend than I am; but 
I must tell you, the mare this morning refused to eat 
hay ; and, truly, I am afraid she will not carry you. 

Der. Oh, never fear ! I will feed her well with oats 
on the road. 

Scrape. Oats ! neighbor ; oats are very dear. 

Der. Never mind that. When I have a good job in 
view, I never stand for trifles. 

Scrape. But it is very slippery ; and I am really afraid 
she will fall and break your neck. 

Der. Give yourself no uneasiness about that. The 
mare is certainly sure-footed ; and, besides, you were just 
now talking of galloping her to town. 

Scrape. Well, then, to tell you the plain truth, though 
I wish to oblige you with all my heart, my saddle is torn 
quite in pieces, and I have just sent my bridle to be 
mended. 

Der. Luckily, I have both a bridle and a saddle hang- 
ing up at home. 
2* 



18 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Scrape. Ah ! that may be ; but I am sure your saddle 
will never fit my mare. 

Der. Why, then I'll borrow neighbor Clodpole's. 

Scrape. Clodpole's ! his will no more fit than yours 
will. 

Der. At the worst, then, I will go to my good friend 
'Squire Jones. He has half a score of them ; and I am 
sure he will lend me one that will fit her. 

Scrape. You know, friend Derby, that no one is more 
willing to oblige his neighbors than I am. I do assure 
yon, the beast should be at your service, with all my 
heart ; but she has not been curried, I believe, for three 
weeks past. Her foretop and mane want combing and 
cutting very much. If any one should see her in her 
present plight, it would ruin the sale of her. 

Der. O ! a horse is soon curried, and my son Sam 
shall despatch her at once. 

Scrape. Yes, very likely ; but I this moment recollect 
the creature has no shoes on. 

Der. Well, is there not a blacksmith hard by? 

Scraj)e. What! that tinker of aDobson? I would 
not trust such a bungler to shoe a goat. No, no ; none 
but uncle Tom Thumper is capable of shoeing my mare. 

Der. As good luck will have it, then, I shall pass right 
by his door. 

Scrape. [Calling- to his son.] Timothy, Timothy. 
Here 's neighbor Derby, who wants the loan of the gray 
mare, to ride to town to-day. You know the skin was 
rubbed off her back last week a hand's breadth or more. 
[He gives Tim a ivink.] However, I believe she is well 
enough by this time. ( You know, Tim, how ready I am 
to oblige my neighbors. And, indeed, Ave ought to do 
all the good we can in this world. We must certainly let 
neighbor Derby have her, if she will possibly answer his 
purpose. Yes, yes ; I see plainly, by Tim's counte- 
nance, neighbor Derby, that he 's disposed to oblige you. 
1 would not have refused you the mare for the worth of 
her. If I had, I should have expected you would have 
refused me in your turn. None of my neighbors can 
accuse me of being backward in doing them a kindness 
Come, Timothy, what do you say ? 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 19 

Tim. What do I say, father? Why, I say, sir, that 
I am no less ready than you are to do a neighborly kind- 
ness. But the mare is by no means capable 'of perform- 
ing the journey. About a hand's breadth did you say, 
sir? Why, the skin is torn from the poor creature's 
back, of the bigness of your broad-brimmed hat. And, 
besides, I have promised her, as soon as she is able to 
travel, to Ned Saunders, to carry a load of apples to the 
market. 

Scrape. Do you hear that, neighbor? I am very 
sorry matters turn out thus. I would not have disobliged 
you for the price of two such mares. Believe me, neigh- 
bor Derby, I am really sorry, for your sake, that mat- 
ters turn out thus. 

Der. And I as much for yours, neighbor Scrapewell ; 
for, to tell you the truth, I received a letter this morning 
from Mr. Griffin, who tells me, if I will be in town this 
day, he will give me the refusal of all that lot of timber 
which he is about cutting down upon the back of cobble- 
hill ; and I intended you should have shared half of it, 
which would have been not less than fifty dollars in your 
pocket. But, as your ■ 

Scrape. Fifty dollars, did you say? 

Der. Ay, truly did I ; but as your mare is out of or- 
der, I '11 go and see if I can get old Roan, the blacksmith's 
horse. 

Scrape. Old Roan ! My mare is at your service, 
neighbor. Here, Tim, tell Ned Saunders he can't have 
the mare. Neighbor Derby wants her; and I won't 
refuse so good a friend anything he asks for. 

Der. But what are you to do for meal? 

Scrape. My wife can do without it this fortnight, if 
you want the mare so long. 

Der. But then your saddle is all in pieces. 

Scrape. I meant the old one. I have bought a new 
one since, and you shall have the first use of it. 

Der. And you would have me call at Thumper's, 
and get her shod ? 

Scrape. No, no ; I had forgotten to tell you, that 1 
let neighbor Dobson shoe her last week by way of trial ; 
and, to do him justice, I must own, he shoes extremely 
well. 



20 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Der. But if the poor creature has lost so much skin 
from off her back 

Scrape. Poh, poh ! That is just one of our Tim's 
large stories. I do assure you, it was not at first bigger 
than my thumb-nail ; and I am certain it has not grown 
any since. 

Der. At least, however, let her have something she 
will eat, since she refuses hay. 

Scrape. She did, indeed, refuse hay this morning : 
but the only reason was that she was crammed full of 
oats. You have nothing to fear, neighbor ; the mare is 
in perfect trim ; and she will skim you over the ground 
like a bird. I wish you a good journey and a profitable 
job. 



DIALOGUE VIII. 
PHYSIOGNOMY. 

Frank. It appears strange to me that people can be 
so imposed upon. There is no difficulty in judging folks 
by their looks. I profess to know as much of a man, at 
the first view, as by half a dozen years' acquaintance. 

Henry. Pray, how is that done? I should wish to 
learn such an art. 

Frank. Did you never read Lavater on Physiogno- 
my? 

Henry. No. What do you mean by such a hard 
word? 

Frank. Physiognomy means a knowledge of men's 
hearts, thoughts, and characters, by their looks. For 
instance, if you see a man with a forehead jutting, over 
his eyes like a piazza ; with a pair of eyebrows heavy, 
like the cornice of a house ; with full eyes and a Roman 
nose, — depend on it, he is a great scholar, and an hon- 
est man. 

Henry. It seems to me I should rather go below his 
nose, to discover his scholarship. 

Frank. By no means : if you look for beauty, you 
may descend to the mouth and chin ; otherwise, never 
go below the region of the brain. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 21 

Enter George. 

George. Well, I have seen a man hanged. And 
he has gone to the other world, with just such a great 
forehead, and Roman nose, as you have always been 
praising. 

Frank. Remember, George, all signs fail in dry 
weather. 

George. Now, be honest, Frank, and own that there 
is nothing in all this science of yours. The only way 
to know men is by their actions. If a man commit bur- 
glary, think you a Roman nose ought to save him from 
punishment'? 

Frank. I don't carry my notions so far as that; but 
it is certain that all the faces in the world are different ; 
and equally true that each has some marks about it, by 
which one can discover the temper and character of the 
person. 

Enter Peter. 

Peter. [ To Frank.'] Sir, I have heard of your fame, 
from Dan to Beersheba ; that you can know a man by 
his face, and can tell his thoughts by his looks. Hear- 
ing this, I have visited you. without the ceremony of an 
introduction. 

Frank. Why, indeed, I profess something in that 
way. 

Peter. By that forehead, nose, and those eyes of 
yours, one might be sure of an acute, penetrating mind. 

Frank. I see that you are not ignorant of physiog- 
nomy. 

Peter. I am not ; but still I am so far from being an 
adept in the art, that unless the features are very remark- 
able, I cannot determine with certainty. But yours is 
the most striking face 1 ever saw. There is a certain 
firmness in the lines which lead from the outer verge to 
the centre of the apple of your eye, which denotes great 
forecast, deep thought, bright invention, and a genius for 
great purposes. 

Frank. You are a perfect master of the art. And to 
show you that I know something of it, permit me to ob- 
serve, that the form of your face denotes frankness, truth, 



22 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

and honesty. Your heart is a stranger to guile, your 
lips to deceit, and your hands to fraud. 

Peter. I must confess that you have hit upon my 
true character, though a different one from what I have 
sustained in the view of the world. 

Frank. [ To Henry and George.] Now see two strong 
examples of the truth of physiognomy. [ While he is 
saying- this, Peter takes out his pocket-book, and makes 
off with himself.] Now, can you conceive, that, with- 
out this knowledge, I could fathom the character of a 
total stranger ? 

Henry. Pray, tell us by what marks you discovered 
that in his heart and lips were no guile, and in his hands 
no fraud 1 

Prank. Ay, leave that to me ; we are not to reveal 
our secrets. But I will show you a face and character 
which exactly suit him. [Feels for his pocket-book in 
both pockets, — looks wild and concerned.] 

George, [Sarcastically.] Ay, " In his heart is no 
guile, in his lips no deceit, and in his hands no fraud ! 
Now we see a strong example of the power of physiog- 
nomy !" 

Frank. He is a wretch ! a traitor against every good 
sign ! I'll pursue him to the ends of the earth. 

Henry. Stop a moment. His fine, honest face is far 
enough before this time. You have not yet discovered 
the worst injury he has done you. 

Frank. What 's that? I had no watch or money for 
him to steal. 

Henry. By his deceitful lips, he has robbed you of 
any just conception of yourself; he has betrayed you 
into a foolish belief that you are possessed of most ex- 
traordinary genius and talents. Whereas, separate from 
the idle whim about physiognomy, you have no more 
pretence to genius, or learning, than a common school- 
boy. Learn, henceforth, to estimate men's hands by 
their deeds, their lips by their words, and their hearts by 
their lives. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 23 

DIALOGUE IX. 
HAMLET AND HORATIO. 

Horatio. Hail to your lordship ! 

Hamlet. I am glad to see you well : (approaches.) 
Horatio, — or I do forget myself. 

Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant 
ever. 

Ham. Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name 
with you. 
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio 1 

Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord. 

Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so ; 
Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, 
To make it truster of your own report 
Against yourself: I know you are no truant. 
But what is your affair in Elsinore ? 
We '11 teach you to drink deep ere you depart. 

Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral. 

Ham. I pray thee do not mock me, fellow-student : 
I think it was to see my mother's wedding. 

Hor. Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon. 

Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio ! the funeral baked meats 
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. 
Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven, 
Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio ! 
My father, methinks I see my father. 

Hor. Where, my lord 7 

Ham. In my mind's eye, Horatio. 

Hor. I saw him once ; he was goodly king. 

Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all ; 
I shall not look upon his like again. 

Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. 

Ham. Saw! who? 

Hor. My lord, the king, your father. 

Ham. The king, my father ? 

Hor. Season your admiration for a while, 
With an attent ear ; till I may deliver, 
Upon the witness of these gentlemen, 
This marvel to you. 

Ham. For Heaven's love, let me hear. 



24 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen, 
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch, 
In the dead waste and middle of the night, 
Been thus encountered : A figure like your father, 
Armed at all points, exactly, cap-a-pie, 
Appears before them, and, with solemn march, 
Goes slow and stately by them. Thrice he walked 
By their oppressed and fear- surprised eyes, 
Within his truncheon's length ; whilst they, distilled 
Almost to jelly with the act of fear, 
Stand dumb, and speak not to him. 

Ham. But where was this ? 

Hor. My lord, upon the platform where we watched. 

Ham. Did you not speak to it \ 

Hor. My lord, I did ; 
But answer made it none. Yet once, methought, 
It lifted up its head, and did address 
Itself to motion, like as it would speak ; 
But, even then, the morning cock crew loud; 
And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, 
And vanished from our sight. 

Ham. 5 T is very strange ! 

Hor. As I do live, my honored lord, 'tis true; 
And we did think it writ down in our duty, 
To let you know of it. 

Ham. Indeed, indeed, sir, but this troubles me. 
Hold you the watch to-night? 

Hor. We do, my lord. 

Ham. Armed, say you ? 

Hor. Armed, my lord. 

Ham. From top to toe ? 

Hor. My lord, from head to foot. 

Ham. Then saw you not his face ? 

Hor. O yes, my lord : he wore his beaver up. 

Ham. What, looked he frowningly ? 

Hor. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. 

Ham. Pale, or red ? 

Hor. Nay, very pale. 

Ham. And fixed his eyes upon you? 

Hor. Most constantly. 

Ham. I would I had been there. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 25 

Hor. It would have much amazed you. 

Ham. Very like, very like ; stayed it long? 

Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a 
hundred. 

Ham. His beard was grizzled ? — no ? — 

Hor. It was as I have seen it in his life, 
A sable silvered. 

Ham. I'll watch to-night; perchance 'twill walk 
again. 

Hor. I warrant you it will 

Ham. If it assume my noble father's person, 
I '11 speak to it, though hell itself should gape, 
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you, sir, 
If you have hitherto concealed this sight, 
Let it be tenable in your silence still ; 
And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, 
Give it an understanding, but no tongue ; 
I will requite your love : so, fare you well. 
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, 
I '11 visit you. 



DIALOGUE X. 
HARD TO PLEASE. 

Mrs. Bolingbroke. I wish I knew what was the 
matter with me this morning. Why do you keep the 
newspaper all to yourself, my dear ? 

Mr. Bolingbroke. Here it is for you, my dear : I have 
finished it. 

Mrs. B. I humbly thank you for giving it to me 
when you have done with it — I hate stale news. Is 
there anything in the paper 1 for I cannot be at the trou- 
ble of hunting it. 

Mr. B. Yes, my dear ; there are the marriages of two 
of our friends. 

Mrs. B. Who? who? 

Mr. B. Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her 
cousin, John Nettleby. 

Mrs. B. Mrs. Nettleby ! Lord ! But why did you 
tell me ? 

Mr. B. Because you asked me, my dear. 
3 



26 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Mrs. B. Oh, but it is a hundred times pleasanter to 
read the paragraph one's self. One loses all the pleas- 
ure of the surprise by being told. Well, whose was the 
other marriage ? 

Mr. B. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you ; I will leave 
you the pleasure of the surprise. 

Mrs. B. But you see I cannot find it. How pro- 
voking you are, my dear ! Do pray tell it me. 

Mr. B. Our friend, Mr. Granby. 

Mrs. B. Mr. Granby ! Dear ! Why did you not 
make me guess ? I should have guessed him directly. 
But why do you call him our friend? I am sure he is 
no friend of mine, nor ever was. I took an aversion to 
him, as you may remember, the very first da/ I saw 
him. I am sure he is no friend of mine. 

Mr. B. I am sorry for it, my dear ; but I hope you 
will go and see Mrs. Granby. 

Mrs. B. Not I, indeed, my dear. Who was she 1 

Mr. B. Miss Cooke. 

Mrs. B. Cooke ! But there are so many Cookes : 
can't you distinguish her in some way? Has she no 
Christian name ? 

Mr. B. Emma, 1 think. Yes, Emma. 

Mrs. B. Emma Cooke ! No ; it cannot be my friend 
Emma Cooke ; for I am sure she was cut out for an old 
maid. 

Mr. B. This lady seems to me to be cut out for a 
good wife. 

Mrs. B. May be so, — 1 am sure I '11 never go to see 
her. Pray, my dear, how came you to see so much of 
her? 

Mr. B. I have seen very little of her, my dear. I 
only saw her two or three times before she was married. 

Mrs. B. Then, my dear, how could you decide that 
she was cut out for a good wife ? I am sure you could 
not judge of her by seeing her only two or three times, 
and before she was married. 

Mr. B. Indeed, my love, that is a very just obser- 
vation. 

Mrs. B. I understand that compliment perfectly, and 
thank you for it, my dear. I must own I can bear any- 
thing better than irony. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 27 

Mr. B. Irony ! my dear, I was perfectly in earnest. 

Mrs. B. Yes, yes; in earnest — so I perceive; — I 
may naturally be dull of apprehension, but my feelings 
are quick enough; I comprehend you too well. Yes — 
it is impossible to judge of a woman before marriage, or 
to guess what sort of a wife she will make. I presume 
you speak from experience ; you have been disappointed 
yourself, and repent your choice. 

Mr. B. My dear, what did I say that was like this ? 
Upon my word, I meant no such thing. I really was 
not thinking of you in the least. 

Mrs. B. No — you never think of me now. I can 
easily believe that you were not thinking of me in the 
least. 

Mr. B. But I said that only to prove to you that I 
could not be thinking ill of you, my dear. 

Mrs. B. But I would rather that you thought ill of 
me, than that you did not think of me at all. 

Mr. B. Well, my dear, I will even think ill of you, 
if that will please you. 

Mrs. B. Do you laugh at me ? When it comes to 
this, I am wretched indeed. Never man laughed at the 
woman he loved. As long as you had the slightest re- 
mains of love for me, you could not make me an object 
of derision : ridicule and love are incompatible ; absolute- 
ly incompatible. Well, I have done my best, my very 
best, to make you happy, but in vain. I see I am not 
cut out to be a good wife. Happy, happy Mrs. Granby ! 

Mr. B. Happy, I hope sincerely, that she will be 
with my friend ; but my happiness must depend on you, 
my love ; so, for my sake, if not for your own, be com- 
posed, and do not torment yourself with such fancies. 

Mrs. B. I do wonder whether this Mrs. Granby is 
really that Miss Emma Cooke. I'll go and see her 
directly ; see her I must. 

Mr. B. I am heartily glad of it, my dear ; for I am 
sure a visit to his wife will give my friend Granby real 
pleasure. 

Mrs. B. I promise you, my dear, I do not go to give 
him pleasure, or you either ; but to satisfy my own — 
curiosity. 



28 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE XI. 
CHARLES II. AND WILLIAM PENN. 

Charles. Well, friend William ! I have sold you a 
noble province in North America ; but still I. suppose 
you have no thoughts of going thither yourself. 

Penn. Yes, I have, I assure thee, friend Charles ; 
and I am just come to bid thee farewell. 

Char. What ! venture yourself among the savages 
of North America! Why, man, what security have 
you that you will not be in their war-kettle in two 
hours after setting foot on their shores? 

Penn. The best security in the world. 

Char. I doubt that, friend William ; I have no idea 
of any security against those cannibals, but in a regi- 
ment of good soldiers, with their muskets and bayonets. 
And mind, I tell you beforehand, that, with all my good 
will for you and your family, to whom I am under obli- 
gations, I will not send a single soldier with you. 

Penn. I want none of thy soldiers, Charles : I de- 
pend on something better than thy soldiers. 

Char. Ah ! and what may that be? 

Penn. Why, I depend upon themselves — on the 
workings of their own hearts — on their notions of 
justice — on their moral sense. 

Char. A fine thing, this same moral sense, no doubt; 
but I fear you will not find much of it among the In- 
dians of North America. 

Penn. And why not among them, as well as others? 

Char. Because, if they had possessed any, they 
would not have treated my subjects so barbarously as 
they have done. 

Penn. That is no proof to the contrary, friend 
Charles. Thy subjects were the aggressors. When 
thy subjects first went to North America, they found 
these poor people the fondest and kindest creatures in 
the world. Every day they would watch for them to 
come ashore, and hasten to meet them, and feast them 
on the best fish, and venison, and corn, which was all 
that they had. In return for this hospitality of the 
savages, as we call them, thy subjects, termed Chris- 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 29 

tians, seized on their country and rich hunting-grounds, 
for farms for themselves ! Now, is it to be wondered at, 
that these much injured people should have been driven 
to desperation by such injustice : and that, burning with 
revenge, they should have committed some excesses 2 

Char. Well, then, I hope you will not complain 
when they come to treat you in the same manner. 

Penn. I am not afraid of it. 

Char. Ah ! how will you avoid it? You mean to 
get their hunting-grounds, too, I suppose ? 

Penn. Yes, but not by driving these poor people 
away from them. 

Char. No, indeed ! How, then, will you get the 
lands? 

Penn. I mean to buy their lands of them. 

Char. Buy their lands of them ! Why, man, you 
have already bought them of me. 

Penn. Yes, I know I have, and at a dear rate, too ; 
but I did it only to get thy good will, not that I thought 
thou hadst any right to their lands. 

Char. Zounds, man ! no right to their lands ! 

Penn. No, friend Charles, no right at all : what right 
hast thou to their lands? 

Char. Why, the right of discovery, to be sure ; the 
right which all Christian kings have agreed to give one 
another. 

Penn. The right of discovery ! A strange kind of 
right, indeed ! Now, suppose, friend Charles, that some 
canoe-loads of these Indians, crossing the sea, and dis- 
covering thy island of Great Britain, were to claim it as 
their own, and set it up for sale over thy head, — what 
wouldst thou think of it? 

Char. Why — why — why — I ran st confess, I should 
think it a piece of great impudence in them. 

Penn. Well, then, how canst thou, a Christian, and 
a Christian prince, too, do that which thou so utterly 
condemnest in these people, whom thou call est savages ? 
Yes, friend Charles ; and suppose, again, that these In- 
dians, on thy refusal to give up thy island of Great 
Britain, were to make war on thee, and, having weap- 
ons more destructive than thine, were to destroy many of 
3* 



30 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

thy subjects, and to drive the rest away. — wouldst thou 
not think it horribly cruel % 

Char. I must say that I should, friend William : 
how can I say otherwise ? 

Penn. Well, then, how can I, who call myself a 
Christian, do what I should abhor even in heathens'? 
No, I will not do it. But I will buy the right of the 
proper owners, even of the Indians themselves. By 
doing this, I shall imitate God himself, in his justice 
and mercy, and thereby insure his blessing on my col- 
ony, if I should ever live to plant one in North America. 



DIALOGUE XII. 
LIGHT CONVERSATION WITH A HEAVY MAN. 

Mrs. Shaivford. Why, Charlotte, there comes Henry 
Warring, the heavy man ; what shall we say and do ? 
[Mr. Warring enters.} How do you do, to-day, sir, — 
am happy to see you, sir. 

Mr. Warring. Thank you, ma'am. 

Mrs. S. How are Mrs. Warring and Eliza ? 

Mr. W. Quite well, I thank you. 

Mrs. S. I hope they are not fatigued. It was so 
very kind of them to stay so late. Eliza looked very 
well ; I think she has quite recovered. 

Mr. W. Yes. 

Mrs. S. Have you been shooting to-day, Mr. War- 
ring? 

Mr. W. No. 

Charlotte. Pray, is it true, Mr. Warring, that Dew- 
hurst Hall is taken? 

Mr. W. I don't know. 

Charlotte. A very great thing for the neighborhood, 
if it be. 

Mr. W. Yes. [Pause.] Beautiful weather, to-day. 

Mrs. S. Very fine, indeed. When do your family 
go to town? 

Mr. W. Next week. 

Charlotte. I hope we shall induce father to take us 
soon ; I want to hear Paganini. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 31 

Mr. W. Yes. 

Charlotte. Have you heard him, Mr. Warring? 

Mr. W. No. 

Charlotte. He must be very wonderful. 

Mr. W. Yes, so they say. 

Charlotte. You are fond of music, are you not ? 

Mr. W. Somewhat. 

Mrs. S. The Dean ages, I think. 

Mr. W. I think he does! 

Charlotte. I suppose William Rushton will soon re- 
turn? 

Mr. W. I suppose so. 

Charlotte. Pray, is there any talk of Donnington 
balls this year ? 

Mr. W. I don't know. 

Charlotte. They were very pleasant. 

Mr. W. Yes, very. 

Mrs. S. Have you heard anything of your cousin ? 

Mr. W. Had a letter the other day. 

Mrs. S. I hope he is quite well ? 

Mr. W. Yes, quite well. 

Mrs. S. I suppose the important day will soon 
arrive ? 

Mr. W. I suppose it will. [Pause.] 

Mrs. S. Will you take some luncheon, Mr. Warring? 

Mr. W. Thank you, — I have lunched. 

Mrs. S. How does John like Oxford? 

Mr. W. Pretty well. 

Mrs. S. Great change for him. 

Mr. W. Yes, very. 

Mrs. S. . Sure you will not take any luncheon ? 

Mr. W. No, I thank you ; I must go. [Rises.] 

Mrs. S. Pray remember us kindly at home. 

Mr. W. Yes. Good-morning. 

Mrs. S. and Charlotte. Good-morning. 

Mrs. & Mr. Warring is a very heavy man. 

Charlotte. Shocking! I always dread to see him 
coming. 



32 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE XIII. 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENT. 

[Mrs. B. and her daughters, Mary and Eliza, seated together. 
Doctor enters.) 

Doctor. Good-morning, Mrs. B. and young ladies. 

Mrs. B. Good-morning, doctor ; am glad you 
have come, for Mary appears to be quite unwell to-day. 

Doctor. 1 am sorry for that; how long have you felt 
unwell, Miss Mary ? 

Mary. Only a few hours ; since last evening. 

Doctor. Were you in usual health until last evening 1 

Mary. Yes, nearly, except the anxiety of preparing 
for the party. 

Doctor. Did your anxiety destroy your appetite ? 

Mary. Oh no, not much ; it only kept me a little 
flurried. .. 

Mrs. B. Why, Mary ! you have hardly taken food 
enough to keep you alive, the last two days. 

Doctor. Have you slept well at night? 

Mary. Yes, generally, very well. 

Eliza. Why, Mary ! we have both of us lain awake, 
and talked almost ah night about the party, ever since 
we received our invitations. 

Doctor. How long was you at the party, Mary ? 

Mary. About three hours. 

Doctor. At what time did you return home ? 

Mary. About one o'clock. 

Doctor. Did you feel chilly when coming home? 

Mary. Yes, doctor, and before, too ; for when I sat 
at the window to rest me, after dancing, I felt quite 
chilly. 

Doctor. Did you dance much during the evening? 

Mary. Oh, no indeed; I never dance much at parties: 
I only danced ten times. 

Doctor. Did you experience any shortness of breath 
when dancing ? 

Mary. No, doctor, I never get out of breath : I could 
breathe last night just as well as I can now. 

Eliza. Why, Mary ! how can you say so? I won- 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 33 

der how you could breathe at all, for you know we 
broke three strings before you were laced to suit you? 

Doctor. Did you rest well last night, or rather this 
morning ? 

Mary. No, doctor ; I had such a pain in my stomach 
that I could not sleep. 

Doctor. By the way, did you take anything last 
night to disagree with your stomach ? 

Mary. No, not in the least. 

Doctor. I presume you at least tasted the refresh- 
ments? 

Mary. Yes, I ate five or six pickled oysters, and 
drank a little coffee. 

Doctor. Did you eat a bit of the tongue ? 

Mary. I just tasted it. 

Doctor. And some of the al a mode beef ? 

Mary. Only a morsel. 

Doctor. And a bit of the turkey ? 

Mary. Just one wing. 

Doctor. And how was the jelly ? 

Mary. Very fine ; but I only tasted it. 

Doctor. Did you try the sweetmeats, ice-creams, 
custards, cakes, oranges, &c 1 

Mary. Only a mouthful of each. 

Doctor. Did you try the wines and lemonade ? 

Mary. I drank two glasses of champagne, and two 
or three of lemonade. 

Doctor. And yet you took nothing to disagree with 
you? 

Mary. No, not in the least. 

Doctor. Did you dance after this ? 

Mary. Only twice, for I had the headache, and felt 
fatigued. 

Doctor. Let me tell you, Miss Mary, that your sup- 
per and dancing have put you in such a condition, that 
if you are able in a month to attend another party, you 
may be thankful. [Writes a recipe.'] I leave you this 
recipe, and will call again to-morrow. In the mean 
time you must remain quiet, and eat but little, and that 
very simple. Good-morning. 

All. Good-morning, doctor. 



34 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE XIV. 
THE TYRANT GESLER, AND WILLIAM TELL. 

Gesler. Why speak' st thou not? 

W. Tell. For wonder. 

Ges. Wonder ? 

Tell. Yes, that thou should' st se m a man. 

Ges. What should I seem % 

Tell. A monster ! 

Ges. Ha! Beware: — think on thy chains. 

Tell. Though they were doubled, and did weigh me 
down, 
Prostrate to earth, methinks I could rise up 
Erect, with nothing but the honest pride 
Of telling thee, usurper, to the teeth, 
Thou art a monster ! Think upon my chains ! 
Show me the link of them, which, could it speak, 
Would give its evidence against my word. 
Think on my chains ! Think on my chains ! 
How came they on me ? 

Ges. Barest thou question me ? 

Tell. Darest thou not answer % 

Ges. Do I hear ? 

Tell Thou dost. 

Ges. Beware my vengeance ! 

Tell. Can it more than kill 1 

Ges. Enough — it can do that. 

Tell. No — not enough : 
It cannot take away the grace of life, 
Its comeliness of look that virtue gives, 
Its port erect with consciousness of truth. 
Its rich attire of honorable deeds, 
Its fair report, that 's rife on good men's tongues ; 
It cannot lay its hands on these, no more 
Than it can pluck his brightness from the sun, 
Or, with polluted finger, tarnish it. 

Ges. But it can make thee writhe. 

Tell. It may. 

Ges. And groan. 

Tell It may ; and I may cry, 
Go on, though it should make me groan again. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 35 

Ges. Whence comest thou ? 

Tell From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn 
What news from them? 

Ges. Canst tell me any 1 

Tell Ay : they watch no more the avalanche. 

Ges. Why so 1 

Tell Because they look for thee. The hurricane 
Comes unawares upon them ; from its bed 
The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track. 

Ges. What do they then 1 

Tell. Thank Heaven it is not thou ! 
Thou hast perverted nature in them. The earth 
Presents her fruits to them, and is not thanked; 
The harvest sun is constant, and they scarce 
Return his smile ; their flocks and herds increase. 
And they look on as men who count a loss. 
They hear of thriving children born to them, 
And never shake the teller by the hand ; 
While those they have, they see grow up and flourish, 
And think as little of caressing them, 
As they were things a deadly plague had smit. 
There's not a blessing heaven vouchsafes them, but 
The thought of thee doth wither to a curse, 
As something they must lose, and richer were 
To lack. 

Ges. That 's right ! I. 'd have them like their hills, 
That never smile, though wanton summer tempt 
Them e'er so much. 

Tell But. they do sometimes smile. 

Ges. Ay ! — when is that 1 

Tell. When they do talk of vengeance. 

Ges. Vengeance ? Dare 
They talk of that? 

Tell. Ay, and expect it, too. 

Ges. From whence? 

Tell From Heaven ! 

Ges. From Heaven ? 

Tell And the true hearts 
Are lifted up to it, on every hill, 
For justice on thee. 



36 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE XV. 
FALSE PRIDE. 

Eliza. Miss Nancy, what child was that your aunt 
had in her arms this morning, as she was walking in 
the mall? 

Nancy. A child ! Miss Eliza; a child! You don't 
think my aunt would be seen walking in public with a 
child in her arms ! 

Eli. Pray. Miss, where would be the harm 1 I 
know she has a beautiful pair of twins, and I thought 
it might be one of them, as it was partly covered with 
her cloak. 

Nan. No, indeed it was her lap-dog. 

Eli. Upon my word, Nancy, you have mended the 
matter mightily ! Your aunt is ashamed to be seen 
walking with a child in her arms; but is not ashamed 
to be seen carrying a paltry puppy through the streets ! 
Pray how much more valuable is a puppy than a child? 

Nan. Why, as to the real value, Eliza, I don't know 
but a child should be prized the highest. Though my 
aunt says she had rather part with both her twins than 
lose her dear little Trip. But, you know, she would be 
taken for one of the lower sort of women, if she were to 
lug a child about with her; whereas nothing makes her 
appear more like a lady than to be seen gallanting her 
little dog. And Trip is none of your common curs, I 
assure you. His mother was imported from Europe ; 
and it is said she once belonged to a lady of nobility. 
You can't think what a sweet little creature he is. 
My aunt nursed him wholly herself ever since he was a 
week old. 

Eli. And who nursed the twins ? 

Nan. They were put into the country with a very 
good woman. They have never been at home but once 
since they were born. But their mamma visits them as 
often, at least, as once a month. 

Eli Would she be willing to be as long absent from 
her dear little Trip, as you call him ? 

Nan. O no, indeed ! She would run crazy if she 
were to lose him but for one day. And no wonder : for 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 37 

ne is the most engaging little animal you ever saw. 
You would be diverted to see him drink tea out of the 
ladies' cups. And he kisses his mistress delightfully ! 

Eli. It is very noble in your aunt to pay such atten- 
tion to an object of so much consequence. He is cer- 
tainly more valuable than half a dozen children. Does 
your aunt expect to teach him to talk ? 

Nan. Talk ! why he talks already. She says she 
perfectly understands his language. When he is hungry, 
he can ask for sweetmeats. When he is dry, he can 
ask for drink. When he is tired of running on foot, he 
can ask tc ride ; and my aunt is never more happy than 
when she has him in her arms ! 

Eli. And yet she would not be seen with one of her 
own children in her arms ! 

Nan. Why, that would be very vulgar ; and all her 
acquaintances would laugh at her. Children, you know, 
are always crying ; and no ladies of fashion will ever 
admit them into their company. 

Eli. If children are always crying, little dogs are 
often barking ; and which is the more disagreeable noise 1 

Nan. Oh, the barking of Trip is music to all who 
hear him ! Mr. Fribble, who often visits my aunt, says 
he can raise and fall the eight notes to perfection ; and 
he prefers the sound of his voice to that of the harpsi- 
chord. It was he who brought his mother from Lon- 
don; and he says there was not a greater favorite 
among all the dogs in possession of the fine ladies of 
court. And more than all that, he says Trip greatly 
resembles a spaniel which belongs to one of the royal 
family. Mr. Fribble and my aunt almost quarrelled, last 
night, to see which should have the honor of carrying 
the dear little favorite to the play. 

Eli. After hearing so many rare qualifications of the 
little quadruped, I do not wonder at your aunt's choice 
of a companion. I am not surprised she should set her 
affections upon a creature so deserving of all her care. 
It is to be wished her children might never come in 
competition with this object of her affections. I hope 
she will continue to maintain the dignity of her sex ; 
4 



38 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



and never disgrace the fashionable circle to which she 
belongs, by neglecting her lap-dog for the more vulgar 
employment of attending to her own offspring. 



DIALOGUE XVI. 
EQUALITY. 

[Jack Anvil, the Blacksmith, and Tom Hod, the Mason.) 

Jack. What's the matter, Tom? Why d' ye look 
so dismal ? 

Tom. Dismal, indeed ! Well enough I may. 

Jack. What! is the old mare dead? or work scarce ? 

Tom. No, no ; work 's plenty enough, if a man had 
but the heart to go to it. 

Jack. What book art thou reading ? Why dost thou 
look so like a hang-dog? 

Tom. [Looking 071 his book.] Cause enough. Why, 
I find here that I am very unhappy, and very miserable; 
which I should never have known if I had not had the 
good luck to meet with this book. O 't is a precious 
book ! 

Jack. A good sign, though ; that you can't find out 
you're unhappy without looking into a book for it! 
What is the matter ? 

Tom. Matter ? Why I want liberty. 

Jack. Liberty ! That 's bad, indeed ! What ! Has 
any one fetched a warrant for thee. Come, man, cheer 
up ; I'll be bound for thee. Thou art an honest fellow 
in the main, though thou dost tipple and prate a little 
too much at the Rose and Crown. 

Tom. No, no; I want a new constitution. 

Jack. Indeed ! Why, I thought thou hadst been a 
desperate healthy fellow. Send for the doctor directly. 

Tom. I'm not sick : I want liberty and equality, and 
the rights of man. 

Jack. O, now I understand thee. What ! thou art 
a leveller and a republican, I warrant ! 

Tom. I'm a friend to the people. I want a reform. 

Jack. Then the shortest way is to mend thyself. 

Tom. But I want a general reform. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 39 

Jack. Then let every one mend one. 

Tom. Pooh ! I want freedom and happiness, the same 
as they have got in France. 

Jack. What, Tom, we imitate them? We follow 
the French ! Why, they only began all this mischief at 
first in order to be just what we are already; and what 
a blessed land must this be, to be in actual possession 
of all they ever hoped to gain by all their hurly-burly. 
Imitate them, indeed ! Why I 'd sooner go to the negroes 
to get learning or to the Turks to get religion, than to 
the French for freedom and happiness. 

Tom. What do you mean by that? are not the French 
free? 

Jack. Free, Tom ! ay, free with a witness. They 
are all so free that there's nobody safe. They make free 
to rob whom they will, and kill whom they will. If 
they don't like a man's looks, they make free to hang 
him without judge or jury, and the next lamp-post 
serves for the gallows ; so then they call themselves free, 
because you see they have no law left to condemn them, 
and no king to take them up and hang them for it. 

Tom. Ah, but Jack, didn't their king formerly hang 
people for nothing, too? and, besides, were not they all 
papists before the revolution? 

Jack. Why, true enough, they had but a poor sort 
of religion ; but bad is better than none, Tom. And so 
was the government bad enough, too ; for they could 
clap an innocent man into prison, and keep him there, 
too, as long as they would, and never say with your 
leave, or by your leave, gentlemen of the jury. But 
what's all that to us ? 

Tom,. To us ! Why don't many of our governors 
put many of our poor folks.in prison against their will ? 
What are all the jails for ? Down with the jails, I say ; 
all men should be free ! 

Jack. Harkee, Tom ; a few rogues in prison keep the 
rest in order, and then honest men go about their busi- 
ness in safety, afraid of nobody; that's the way to be 
free. And let me tell thee, Tom, you and I are tried 
by our peers "as much as a lord is. Why, the king can't 
send me to prison, if I do no harm ; and if I do, there's 



40 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

good reason why I should go there. I may go to law 
with Sir John, at the great castle yonder; and he no 
more dares lift his little finger against me than if I were 
his equal. A lord is hanged for hanging matter, as 
you or I should be ; and if it will be any comfort to 
thee, I myself remember a peer of the realm being 
hanged for killing his man, just the same as the man 
would have been for killing him. 

Tom. A lord ! Well, that is some comfort, to be sure. 
But have you read the " Rights of Man? " 

Jack. No, not I : I had rather by half read the 
" Whole Duty of Man." I have but little time for read- 
ing, and people like me should therefore only read a bit 
of the best. 

Tom. Don't tell me of those old fashioned notions. 
Why should not we have the same fine things they have 
got in France? I'm for a constitution, and organiza- 
tion, and equalization, and fraternization. 

Jack. Do be quiet. Now, Tom, only suppose this 
nonsensical equality was to take place ; why, it would 
not last while one could say Jack Robinson ; or suppose 
it could — suppose, in the general division, our new rulers 
were to give us half an acre of ground a-piece ; we 
could, to be sure, raise potatoes on it for the use of our 
families ; but as every other man would be equally busy 
in raising potatoes for his family, why, then, you see, 
if thou wast to break thy spade, I, whose trade it is, 
should no longer be able to mend it. Neighbor Snip 
would have no time to make us a suit of clothes, nor the 
clothier to weave the cloth ; for all the world would be 
gone a digging. And as to boots and shoes, the want 
of some one to make them for us wo aid be a still greater 
grievance than the tax on leather. If we should be sick, 
there would be no doctor's stuff for us ; for doctors 
would be digging, too. And if necessity did not compel, 
and if equality subsisted, we could not get a chimney 
swept, or a load of coal from pit, for love or money. 

Tom. Well, I am not certain but things are about 
right, after all ; and I '11 try to make the best of them. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 41 

DIALOGUE XVII. 
LEARNING AND USEFULNESS. 

Mr. Howard and Mr. Lester. 

Hoivard. Life is much like a fiddle : — every man 
plays such a tune as suits him. 

Lester. The more like a fiddle, the better I like it; — 
anything that makes a merry noise suits me ; and the 
man that does not set his hours to music has a dull 
time on 't. 

How. But, Lester, are there no serious duties in life? 
Ought we not to improve our minds, and prepare for 
usefulness? 

Les. Why, in the present day, a man's preparing 
himself for usefulness is like carrying coals to New- 
castle. Our country is full of useful men; ten, at least, 
to where one is wanted, and all of them ten times as 
ready to serve the public as the public is to be served. 
If every man should go to Congress who is fit for it, the 
federal city would hardly hold them. 

How. You mean, if all who think themselves fit for 
it. 

Les. No ; I mean as I said. 

How. Then, what do you think fits a man for Con- 
gress ? 

Les. Why, he must be flippant and bold. 

How. What good will these do him, if he is without 
knowledge ? 

Les. O ! he must have knowledge, to be sure. 

How. Well, must he not be a man in whom the peo- 
ple can trust? must he not understand politics? and 
must he not be able and willing to serve his country? 

Les. I agree to all that. 

How. Then you suppose that the federal city could 
hardly hold all our men who unite eloquence with con- 
fidence, knowledge with integrity, and policy with pa- 
triotism. I fear that a counting-house could give them 
full accommodation. 

Les. I don't go so deep into these matters ; but this is 
certain, that when the election comes, more than enough 
are willing to go. 
4* 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



How. That, my friend, only proves that more than 
enough are ignorant of themselves. But are there no 
other ways of serving the public ? 

Les. Yes ; one may preach, if he will do it for little 
or nothing. He may practise law, if he can get any 
one to employ him ; or he may be a doctor : or an in- 
structor ; but I tell you the country is crowded with 
learned men begging business. 

How. Then you intend to prepare yourself for the 
ignorant herd, so that you may not be crowded. 

Les. I have serious thoughts of it. You may take 
your own way ; but I will never wear out a pair of fine 
eyes in preparing myself for usefulness, till this same 
public will give me a bond to employ me when I am 
ready to serve them. Until such a bond is signed, sealed, 
and delivered, I shall set my hours to the tune of 
" Jack 's alive." " To-day 's" "the ship I sail in, and that 
will carry the flag, in spite of the combined powers of 
"yesterdays" and " to-morrows." 

How. Well, Lester, you can take your choice. I shall 
set my hours to a more serious tune. I ask no bond of 
the public. If my mind is well furnished with knowledge, 
and that same generous public, which has so uniformly 
called to her service the well-informed and deserving, 
should refuse my services, still I shall possess a treas- 
ure, which, after a few years' dissipation, you would 
give the world to purchase, — ; the recollection of time 
well spent. 



DIALOGUE XVIII. 
THE TWO ROBBERS. 

Alexander the Great and a Thracian Chief. 

Alexander. What ! art thou that Thracian robber, of 
whose exploits I have heard so much'? 

Chief. I am a Thracian, and a soldier. 

Alex. A soldier! — a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! 
the pest of the country ! I could honor thy courage, but 
I must detest and punish thy crimes. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 43 

Chief. What have I done, of which you can com- 
plain ? 

Alex. Hast thou not set at defiance my authority; 
violated the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring 
the persons and properties of thy fellow subjects'? 

Chief. Alexander ! I am your captive — I must hear 
what you please to say, and endure what you please to 
inflict. But my soul is unconquered ; and if I reply at 
all to your reproaches, I will reply like a free man. 

Alex. Speak freely. Far be it from me to take the 
advantage of my power, to silence those with whom I 
deign to converse. 

Chief. I must then answer your question by asking 
another. How have you passed your life? 

Alex. Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she will tell 
you. Among the brave, I have been the bravest; among 
sovereigns, the noblest; among conquerors, the mightiest. 

Chief And does not Fame speak of me, also ? Was 
there ever a bolder captain of a more valiant band? Was 
there ever — but I scorn to boast. You yourself know I 
have not been easily subdued. 

Alex. Still, what are you but a robber — a base, dis- 
honest robber ? 

Chief And what is a conqueror? Have not you, 
too, gone about the earth like an evil genius, blasting 
the fairest fruits of peace and industry ; plundering, rav- 
aging, killing, without law, without justice, merely to 
gratify an insatiable lust for dominion ? All that I have 
done to a single district with a hundred followers, you 
have done to whole nations with a hundred thousand. 
If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and 
princes. If I have burned a few hamlets, you have des- 
olated the most flourishing kingdoms and cities on the 
earth. What, then, is the difference, but that, as you 
were a king and I a private man, you have been able to 
become a mightier robber than I ? 

Alex. But if I have taken like a king, I have given 
like a king. If I have subverted empires, I have found- 
ed greater. I have cherished arts, commerce, and phi- 
losophy. 

Chief I, too, have freely given to the poor what I 



44 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

have taken from the rich. I have established order and 
discipline among the most ferocious of mankind, and 
have stretched out my protecting arm over the op- 
pressed. I know, indeed, little of the philosophy of 
which you talk, but I believe that neither you nor I shall 
ever atone to the world for half the mischief we have 
done it. 

Alex. Leave me. Take off his chains, and use him 
well. Are we then so much alike ? Alexander like a 
robber ! Let me reflect. 



DIALOGUE XIX. 
THE EVIL ADVISER. 

Thomas. What 's your hurry, Frank ? stop a minute. 

Frank. I can't stay ! Father sent me with this let- 
ter to the railroad depot. 

Th. Well, the depot won't run away. 

Fr. But the cars will; there's a gentleman going to 
New York, who promised to carry this letter, and there 's 
money in it for my brother. 

Th. But don't you see it's but ten minutes past 
three, — and the cars don't start till four, and you have 
time enough for what I want of you. 

Fr. Well, what do you want? 

Th. Just step in here to see the wild beasts with me ; 
you have never been, have you ? 

Fr. No : I '11 go when I come back from my errand. 

Th. No, you can't, for then it will be time to go to 
the writing-master. 

Fr. Then I '11 go with you to-morrow. 

Th. No, you can't, for this is the last day of the ex- 
hibition. 

Fr. Is it ? that 's bad ! I did not know there were any 
beasts in town till to-day. How many are there ? 

Th. Ever so many; there's a polar bear, and an 
elephant, and a most beautiful rhinoceros 

Fr. I have seen a rhinoceros, and he is the ugliest 
creature that ever was; his skin sets as loosely upon 
him as a sailor's trousers. 

Th. Well, there's a royal tiger 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 45 

Fr. Is there 1 I never saw a royal tiger ! 

Th. Oh! he's a beauty — all yellow, and covered 
with black stripes. Then there are little leopards play- 
ing just like kittens ; and, — there! there! do you hear 
that? that's the lion roaring! 

Fr. Whew! that's a peeler! How long will it take 
to see them all? 

Th. Oh ! not half an hour ; and it won't take you 
five minutes to run down to the depot afterwards, if you 
clip it like a good fellow. 

Fr. Are there any monkeys ? 

Th. Plenty of them ! the funniest monkeys you ever 
saw ; they make all sorts of faces. 

Fr. Well, — I don't know, — what if I should be too 
late for the cars 1 

Th. No danger of that, I tell you ; the town clock 
up there is too fast; it's all out of order; and, besides, 
you might see half the beasts while you are standing 
here thinking about it ; looking up the street and down 
the street. 

Fr. Well ; come along, then ; where 's your money ? 

Th. Oh ! I don't pay ! I got acquainted with the 
door-keeper after I had been in twice, and now he lets 
me in for nothing every time I bring a fellow that does 
pay. 

Fr. Oh ho ! well, I suppose it 's quarter of a dollar, 
and I have one somewhere in my pockets. [Pulling out 
his handkerchief to search for the money, drops the let- 
ter.} Ah ! here it is ! Come, Tom ! no time to be lost. 
Mind you do not let me stay too long. 

[ They go into the exhibition booth.} 

[Frank's father, passing along, picks vp the letter, 
examines it, looks round for Frank, and passes hastily 
away.] 

[After some time, the boys come out.] 

Th. You did not see half of them, you were in such 
a hurry and worry. 

Fr. I know it. Are you sure that clock is too fast, 
Tom? 

Th. I don't know, — I suppose so, — the clocks are 
wrong half the time. 



46 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Fr. Why, you told me it was too fast, Tom ! and 
now I '11 bet anything I shall be too late ! I wish I had n't 
gone in ! 

Th. Well, why don't you move, then ? What are 
you rummaging after? 

Fr. Why, after my letter. I'm sure I put it in this 
pocket. What in the name of wonder has become of it? 

Th. Look in t' other pocket. 

Fr. It is n 't there ! nor in my hat ! What shall ] 
do? 

Th. Why, you can't have lost it, can you ? 

Fr. I have lost it ; I am as sure as can be I had it 
in this very pocket just before I met you, and now it 's 
gone! 

Th. May be somebody stole it in the crowd. 

Fr. That 's comfort ! There was ever so much 
money in it, for I heard father talking about it at dinner- 
time. 

Th. Oh ! I '11 tell you what 's become of it ? 

Fr. What? what? 

Th. Why, I guess the elephant took it out of your 
pocket ! 

Fr. You ought to be ashamed to stand there laugh- 
ing, after you have got me into such a scrape ! I have a 
great mind to go in again and look all round. 

Th. They won't let you in again, unless you pay. 

Fr. Oh, Tom ! what will my father say to me ? 
Where shall I look? I wish I had never heard of the 
beasts ; there was no comfort in looking at them, for I 
was thinking of the cars all the time; and now my letter 
is lost, and brother Henry's money, and all ; and what 
will father do to me? 

Th. What 's the use of telling him anything about 
it ? he '11 never know whether the letter went or not, if 
you don't say a word. 

Fr. Yes, he will ; my brother will write to inquire 
for the money. 

Th. Well, and can't you say you gave the letter to 
the gentleman ? 

Fr. No, Tom; I can't do that. I can't tell a lie, 
and, above all, to my father. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 47 

Th. The more fool you ! But you needn't look so 
mad about it. There 's your father coming now ! run 
and tell him, quick, and get a whipping ! 

Fr. He will punish me, Tom ; that he will. What 
shall I do ? 

Th. Take my advice; I '11 tell a rib for you, and do 
you hold to it. 

Fr. I never told a lie in my life, Tom ! 

Th. Then it's high time you did; you'll have to 
tell a great many before you die. 

Fr. I don't believe that. 

Th. Well, here 's your father. Now see how I '11 
get you out of the scrape. That 's right ! keep staring 
up at the hand-bill on the wall. 

[Enter Father ; Frank stares at the hand-bill.) 

Father. Why, Frank, you have run yourself out of 
breath ; I trust that letter will go safely, for your brother 
wants the money very much. 

Th. Frank was just in time, sir. The cars were 
just starting. 

Fath. Oh ! you went with him, did you ? 

Th. Yes, sir ; and I saw the gentleman put the let- 
ter in his pocket-book very carefully. I fancy it will go 
safe enough. 

Fath. I fancy it will. What is in that hand-bill, 
Frank, that interests you so much? 

Fr. I don't know, sir. 

Fath. What's the matter, my boy? 

Fr. I can't stand it, father ! I can't stand it ! I had 
rather take ten whippings, Tom, any day, than — than — 

Fath. Ho, ho ! what is all this ? 

Th. You are a fool, Frank. 

Fr. I know I am a fool ; but I can't tell a lie. I 
lost the letter, father ; I went to see the wild beasts with 
Tom, and lost the letter ! 

Fath. And this precious fellow wanted you to de- 
ceive me about it, did he ? 

Th. Why, I thought— — 

Fath. Frank ! I would willingly lose a dozen let- 
ters, with ten times as much money in them, for the 



48 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

pleasure of finding you resist the temptation ! Come 
here, my boy, and leave off crying. I found the letter, 
and carried it myself to the depot in time for the cars ; I 
can forgive your folly, — since it has not ended in wick- 
edness ; but remember one thing ; I shall not forgive you, 
if, henceforward, you associate with this 'unprincipled 
boy! {To Thomas.) Begone, sir! I am glad to see 
shame on your face. Had my boy taken your advice, 
he, too, would have been at this moment a detected, con- 
science-smitten, despised liar ; but he is holding up his 
head, and his heart is light in his bosom. You are the 
very boy, Thomas, whom I was requested to take into 
my employment ; but I will have nothing to do with 
you. Never come near my son again ! 



DIALOGUE XX. 

THE BEER TRIAL. 

William. I saw you this morning, James, go into a 
shop where Albany cream ale was advertised, and buy 
a glass. I did not expect you would do that, as you 
belong to the Temperance Society. 

James. I'm none of your teetotalers, I tell you, Wil- 
liam. I signed the ardent spirit pledge, and I'll stick to 
that, up to any of you. But I like good cider and ale. 
Mother says it purifies the blood, and then it braces me 
up, and makes me feel so nice and strong here, [placing- 
his hand on his stomach.] 

Wm. You think it purifies the blood, do you ? 
Have you ever read the famous beer trial, and do you 
know how your precious Albany cream ale is made? If 
you have not, I can lend it to you ; the reading of it may 
make you think that there is something gets into the 
blood which might as well be kept out. 

James. Beer trial, what is that? I never heard 
of it. 

Wm. Why, the trial of Mr. Delavan, who was sued 
by the Albany brewers, who brew your favorite cream 
ale, for saying that they, made it out of such filthy 
water that no dog nor horse would drink it. Water 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 49 

that was as thick as cream — the reason, I suppose, it is 
called cream ale. 

James. None of your talking so. I don't believe a 
word on it. I asked why they called it cream ale, and 
they said it was because the foam looked yellow, like 
cream. 

Wm. . I should think it would look green instead of 
yellow, for the top of the pond was green ; but there 
was enough in the pond under the green cover to give 
the yellow tinge. 

James. Now, William, I won't bear it. I say the ale 
is good ale. None of your nonsense. 

Wm. Well, James, read for yourself. If you are 
pleased to drink beer made out of a pond which is the 
receptacle of the wash of slaughter-houses and grave- 
yards, and where are thrown all manner of dead beasts, 
you may ; I say, 

" Water, pure water, pure water for me." 

But every one to his liking ; as my Latin book says, de 
gustlbus non dispntandum. 

James. Well, William, if it is as you say, I'll drink 
no more cream ale. Let me see the trial. 

Wm. Here it is. Read it through ; but mind, now, 
don't take your hand off your stomach, for you will 
want something to brace you up, better than cream ale, 
before you get through. 



DIALOGUE XXI. 
YANKEEISM. 

{Mr. Pry and Mr. Sly meet for the first time, at a public 
house.) 

Mr. Pry. How do you do, Mr. 1 

Mr. Sly. Yes, that's my name, and I'm as well as 
usual. 

Mr. Pry. Let me see, — I think we have met before 
on the road ; I know I have seen you somewhere. 

Mr. Sly. Very likely, for I often go there. 

[A short pause.] 
5 



50 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Mr. Pry. Ahem ! I think you travel for 

Mr. Sly. Noses. 

Mr. Pry. Moses? Let me see, — he lives in 

Mr. Sly. I said noses, and not Moses. 

Mr. Pry. O yes ; you are in the toy trade, are you ? 

Mr. Sly. By no means, sir. I deal in human noses, 
the ordinary sneezing noses of every day physiognomy. 

Mr. Pry. Yery odd traffic that, surely ; may I ask 
how you conduct your business, for I never before met 
a nasal merchant. 

Mr. Sly. Then I shall be most happy to deal with 
you. I cannot say that your nose is of the first quality ; 
it turns up rather too much, and belongs to a variety not 
greatly in demand ; but nevertheless I will buy it of you 
at a fair price. 

Mr. Pry. What, my nose % 

Mr. Sly. Yes, sir. I am serious in my proposal ; 
I '11 buy your nose. 

Mr. Pry. To be delivered, — when? 

Mr. Sly. When you have no longer any use for it. 

Mr. Pry. That 's fair ; to be paid for, — when ? 

Mr. Sly. This very moment; I will give you its 
full value, — say fifty dollars. 

Mr. Pry. It 's a bargain ; I accept your offer. 

Mr. Sly. There is only this condition, — that we both 
agree to forfeit one hundred dollars, if either of us should 
go from the bargain. 

Mr, Pry. Agreed ! that is, if you allow me all my 
life to enjoy your property, and do not attempt to inter- 
fere with it in the performance of its functions. 

Mr. Sly. All right. You may import or export the 
merchandise in question, as you please. I will not even 
require you to get it insured. 

Mr. Pry. Then I consent to your clause in the agree- 
ment. 

Mr. Sly. And I will pay you directly. 

[ The agreement is drawn and signed, and the money 
paid; the purchaser, in the mean time, whispers to the 
waiter, who soon returns from the kitchen with a pair of 
tongs having the extreme ends red. hot.} 

Mr. Sly. Give me the tongs, waiter. [He takes the 
tongs , and reaches towards the seller.] 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 51 

Mr. Pry. Why, what's all this mean? {Moving 
back, and holding on his nose.] 

Mr. Sly. Only a pair of red hot tongs, sir ; every 
time I make a purchase, I mark my merchandise, in 
order to insure its not being changed. Having bought 
your nose, I must, of course, put our usual brand upon it. 

Mr. Pry. But, zounds ! I cannot allow this. 

Mr. Sly. Then I must remind you of the clause in 
the agreement, and that you are the first to break the 
contract. 

Mr. Pry. But, sir, put yourself in my position. 

Mr. Sly. That's impossible! I am the buyer, not 
the seller. I claim one hundred dollars, as the forfeit, 
and all will admit the justice of my demand. 

Mr. Pry. Well, if I must, I must ; and here 's the 
needful, [giving him the money.] You have caught me 
by the nose this time, and I must make the best of it. 
No one knows the value of a nose, until called to part 
with it. 

Mr. Sly. I trust we part as friends; certainly we 
know each other better than we did when we met. 



DIALOGUE XXII. 
THE MONSTER OF MANY NAMES. ' 

Charles. I have heard it said, William, that our 
language is, of all others, the most difficult for foreigners 
to learn. Can you account for it ? 

William. I cannot, indeed, unless it is because there 
are so many words which signify the same thing. For 
instance, when a fellow feels a little out of sorts, and 
thinks it is because he is dry, he goes to the store and 
calls for his "bitters," "black strap," "sling," "four 
o'clock," &c. ; the liquor-sellers all understand him, — 
he wants some strong drink. 

C. You are right ; but the terms you mention are 
rather out of date, I believe. They have got an entire 
new list of names for that thing, now-a-days. But this 
only increases the difficulty I referred to. 



52 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

W. Yes ; and some of them are very appropriate. 

C. Some, I think, call it Samson. 

W. Samson ! 1 suppose that 's because it's so strong ; 
is it not ? 

C. Yes ; but that is not the only reason. Samson, 
you know, deceived the people about his strength, and 
it was a long while before they found out where it lay. 
Besides this, Samson was a great man-slayer; but where 
Samson slew his thousands, strong drink has slain its 
tens of thousands. 

W. I have heard of a certain Quaker who called it 
Pharaoh ; for I perceive, said he, it will not let the 
people go. 

C. You remind me of a sailor I saw the other day. 
Jack was already " half seas over," when he went into 
Smith's and called for an ounce of old tangle-legs. 
Thinks I, — What is that? So I kept my eye on the 
scales ; but Smith understood him ; so he gave him a 
glass, you see, and off he ent. But, dear me, I guess 
it was tangle-legs ! First he went this way, and then 
that, zigzag, like a Virginia fence, till his legs got into a 
complete tangle, and down he went. 

W. You see old Pharaoh had got hold of him, and 
by tangling his legs he would n't let him go. But that's 
not the worst of it ; go home with that fellow, if he 's 
got any, and you '11 find everything else in a tangle. I 
guess you don't catch me in that snarl. 

C. They say the travelling community call it oats. 
Is that true ? 

W. Oats ! what, for men 1 I guess they wet them, 
then. 

C. Why, I know of a store that 's got no other 
sign but " Oats for horses." But mind you, they don't 
mean four-legged horses ; for everybody knows that 
they are not very partial to oats from the wine measure. 

W. Ah, I know what store you mean. I was down 
there the other day, and saw this all acted out. A 
young sort of a buck came driving up, all of a lather, 
jumped out of his gig, and said he must have some oats 
to help him over the hill. The old mare — she called, 
too. But he replied, " Hold your tongue, there; there 's 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 53 

nothing here for you ; it is my turn, now." So I 
watched him ; and, thinks I, I guess you '11 not go any 
faster for such oats as these. But I was mistaken. 
Crack went the whip, and away flew the poor creature, 
over hill and dale, like a sheet of lightning. 

C. Well, William, so much for the oats ; now, did 
you ever hear this thing called pig. 

W. Pig! pig! I have heard of the striped pig affair, 
out there at old Dedham. But I guess they little 
thought, when they made choice of that word, how ap- 
propriate it was ; for this liquor business, you know, is 
rather a swinish concern throughout. 

C. I ask your pardon. Who ever heard of a drunken 
hog ? I am inclined to believe it a base imposition on 
the pig community. What do you think 1 

W. Well, I guess they think something so, for, when 
uncle Jim went out to feed his hogs last night, he under- 
took to clean the trough a little, you know ; but he lost 
his balance, (his legs being a little tangled about this 
time of day,) and over he went, without ceremony, 
into madam Piggy's dining-room. To excuse his rude- 
ness, he exclaimed, " Don't you be concerned; I am as 
good as the best of you." To which the whole family 
replied, " Doubted ! doubted ! " and away they scam- 
pered. 

C. To conclude, William, did you ever hear this 
thing called hard- ware ? 

W. Hard- ware ! Yes ; and true enough it is hard, 
all hard, and nothing but hard. It is hard for the con- 
sumer, hard for the vender, hard for the neighborhood, 
town, county and state. And he that can deal in such 
kind of hard-ware as this must be a hard, hard cus- 
tomer. And if I am not mistaken, he gives every 
worthy person occasion to think hard of him; more 
especially the poor drunkard's household, where nothing 
is so plenty as hard looks, hard words, hard knocks, and 
hard, hard times. 
5* 



54 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE XXIII. 
DOING BECAUSE OTHERS DO. 

Henry. Well, Charles, I don't think that sounded 
very well. 

Charles. What do you mean, Henry 1 

Hen. O, you need not make strange of it. I heard 
you plainly enough. 

Char. Heard me? What did you hear? 

Hen. Why, I heard you calling poor Jemmy Club- 
foot names. That was rather mean business, Charles. 

Char. May you not mistake, now ? Are you sure 
you heard me ? 

Hen. Very sure, Charles, very sure. Don't you 
suppose I know your shrill voice? Why, I could tell it 
among all the voices of all the boys in town. 

Char. Well, — suppose you did, then, — for there's 
no use in denying it. But what of all that ? 

Hen. What of it? Why, as I just said, it is mean 
enough for any boy ; and I am ashamed of it in you. 
What harm has Jemmy ever done you? and why do 
you wish to ridicule him on account of his deformity 
and lack of brightness? Supposing you were in his sit- 
uation ? Would such treatment from boys suit you ? 

Char. You are very grave about it, I should think. 
I have no desire to abuse old Jemmy ; and why should 
you think I have ? 

Hen. If you did not intend to insult him, why did 
you assail him with such language ? Just tell us that ? 

Char. Why, I heard John Warner calling after him, 
and so I joined in. 

Hen. Aha ! You joined in with John, then ; and 
why did John do it? 

Char. Well, you can ask him ; here he comes, and 
he may speak for himself. 

Enter John. 

John. What now, boys ? What 's going on ? Who 
called my name ? 

Hen. Charles and I. We were speaking of Jemmy 
Clubfoot, as he is called ; and of the insult offered him 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. DO 

by the boys. I had been asking Charles why he sung 
out after him in the streets ; and what do you suppose 
his answer was ? 

John. Really, I couldn't tell; except that he liked 
the sport of it 7 

Hen. No ; he denies that. He says he did so because 
you did ! a great reason, to be sure ! Now, will you be 
so condescending as to tell me why you did it? 

John. You seem to be very inquisitive. Why do you 
take the matter up so seriously ? Do you think there is 
any harm in having a little fun with old Jemmy? 

Hen. John, if you were old Jemmy, should you like 
such salutations ? Come, now, I have touched your 
benevolence, I know; so now " own up," and be hon- 
est. 

John. O, I shan't dodge that question. I spoke about 
Charley's liking the sport of it : but I did n't mean so. 
I should n't have thought about calling after Jemmy, if 
William Simpson hadn't put me up to it. 

Hen. Indeed ! so here is another confession. Well, 
now, I should like to ask William, — and here he is, 
coming, fresh from the scene, I suppose, — yes — I '11 ask 
him who coaxed him to do his screaming. 

John. Come on here, William, and give us your evi- 
dence ; we have a court here. 

Ente7' William. 

William. A court? Well, don't try me very hard. 
But what 's your case now? 

John. Henry wants to ask you a question. 

Wm. What 's that, pray ? 

Hen. O, a very simple one, William. We were 
speaking of the insults offered by the boys to poor Jem- 
my Clubfoot. I was asking Charles here, why he sung 
out after him. ' He says it was because John did it. I 
asked John his reason, and he says your example in- 
duced him. Now, will you tell me your object in assail- 
ing this poor fellow? 

Wm. O, I've no particular reason to give. The 
other boys sing out after him, and so do I, now and then. 

Hen. There ! now we have the weighty reason of 



56 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



the whole matter. You do it because others do it ; not 
stopping to ask whether it is right, whatever others may 
think or do. Is n't that it? 

Wm. Yes, I suppose so. But why do you speak as 
though it were of so much importance ? Do you suppose 
I wish to injure old Jemmy ? 

Hen. No, no, William; I don't think that; but you 
don't believe that such salutations to the unfortunate are 
really right, do you ? 

Wm. No, I do not. 

Hen. Well, now let us see if we cannot learn a les- 
son here. I remember what our schoolmaster said to 
Henry Stocker, the other day, when he threw stones, and 
Henry told him he did so because Joseph White did. 
" Supposing Joseph White should tell you to jump over- 
board, would you do it?" I thought this a good hit. 
But this is not all. We shall find that many of our or- 
dinary evils are kept in being in this way. One upholds 
them because another does. A silly fashion comes up. 
One is foolish enough to run into it because another does. 
One swears because another does. One drinks, one 
gambles, one lies, one defrauds and steals, because an- 
other does. You remember what the temperance lec- 
turer said, the other evening, about the rumseller, who 
said if he didn't sell liquor to get folks drunk, somebody 
else would. So because others sinned, he must. Why 
this is a wicked pretence; and we ought to know it and 
feel it. We should learn to do a deed because it is right, 
or not to do it because it is wrong ; no matter what others 
do, or what they do not. What say you, William ; is n't 
this right? 

Wm. I think so. 

John and Charles. {Both.) And so do I. 

Hen. Well, just to be winding up our talk, I will 
recite to you a few verses from Cowper. They present 
the matter, I think, in a ludicrous light. 

{All three.) Let 's hear. 

" A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, 
Had once his integrity put to the test ; 
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, 
And asked him to go and assist in the job. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 57 

"He was shocked much indeed, and he answered, ' no! 
What! rob our good neighbor ! I pray you don't go ; 
Besides, the man's poor, and his orchard 's his bread ; 
Then think of his children, for they must be fed.' 

" ' You speak very fine, and you look very grave, 
But apples we want, and apples we '11 have; 
If you will go with us, you shall have a share ; 
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear.' 

" They spoke, and Tom pondered — ' I see they will go ; 
Poor man ! what a pity to injure him so ! 
Poor man ! I would save him his fruit if I could, 
But staying behind here will do him no good. 

" ' If the matter depended alone upon me, 

His apples might hang till they drop from the tree ; 
But since they will take them, I think I '11 go too ; 
He will lose none by me, though I get a few.' 

" His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease, 
And went, with his comrades, the apples to seize ; 
He blamed and protested, but joined in the plan — 
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man! " 

Wm. That 's a good hit, as you said of your school- 
master. I shall think more of this matter, in time to 
come. 

Hen. I trust you will : and that Charles, and John, 
and all of us, will be wise enough, in the future, just to 
ask ourselves, when we are prompted to do anything, of 
at least a questionable character — not whether others 
do it — nor whether it is a custom, or the fashion — nor 
whether the many or the few approve it ; but whether 
it is really in itself just and right. When I hear of any 
better course than this, I will try to inform you of it; 
and when you do, just send me word. 

Wm. I certainly will, Henry; and I hope we shall all 
receive good from this interview. 



58 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE XXIV. 

THE INDIAN DOCTOR. 

Part I. 

{Doctor Hartshorn is seen at his table, on which are bottles, 
bundles of herbs, and pill-boxes. Wakefield and Plumb enter 
on another part of the stage.) 

Wakefield. Good-evening, Capt. Plumb; what's the 
news to-day? Any thing from Mexico? 

Plumb. Not a word, neighbor Wakefield; — dull 
times for news. 

W. Have you heard of the famous Indian doctor 
who has just come to town ? 

P. No ; and don't want to. I am no friend to such 
quacks. All they want is to get away our money. 

W. If what they say of Dr. Hartshorn is true, he 
is very different from the quacks you speak of. He 
gives his advice and his drugs without any fee, from rich 
or poor, and then he professes to heal moral and not 
physical maladies. 

P. He must be a comical fellow, to work for nothing 
and "find himself." I should like to see him; but the 
old scamp shan't get any of my money. Where shall 
we find him, Mr. Wakefield ? 

W. He has a kind of stall down in Fourth-street. 
Will you go with me and see him ? 

P. With pleasure, for I should really like to see a 
man who works for nothing. {Exeunt.) 

Doctor. (Alone.) Well! here I am in this famous 
town of A. The place looks thrifty, and the people are 
said to be shrewd and industrious. They have many 
fine churches, and good schoolhouses ; and so far, it is 
well. But I have had only two patients since I came 
here. One was a miser, who wanted contentment, and 
the other was a spendthrift, who expected to be cured 
by having more money. Still I am not discouraged, and 
hope to do some good before I leave the place. 

Enter Wakefield and Plumb. 

Good-evening, gentlemen, — I am happy to see you ; 
please walk up and look at my collection of medicines 
for mental diseases. Can I be of any service to either 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 59 

of you ? Have you any trouble on your mind that you 
wish to have relieved 1 

W. I have troubles, doctor, but they are beyond the 
reach of your skill. My character is suffering from slan- 
der, and the treachery of professed friends. I am troubled 
and fretted, and my loudest complaints are unheeded ; 
and I fail in all my efforts to avenge myself upon my 
accusers. 

Doct. Your cure is not so hard as you imagine. Here 
is an herb called Patience lily ; it is an humble plant, 
but has great medicinal virtues. Steep it in the syrup 
of Contentment, and take it every morning. You must 
give up all thoughts of revenge on your enemies, and 
you will live down their slanders. (Exit Wakefield.) 

(To Plumb.) Well, my friend, what can I do for 
you ? 

P. If you don't ask me to pay you anything for your 
advice, I will tell you my troubles, and follow your di- 
rections. 

Doct. I never take pay from any one ; my reward is 
found in the good I may do to my afflicted fellow beings. 

P. Well, then, to tell you the truth, I have got a little 
property, and every one is trying to get it away from me. 
I am constantly perplexed lest I should lose it by the 
knavery of others. Then, there are the subscription 
papers, and the minister tax, and the town and county 
taxes, and the school tax, so that I find, although my 
own children are all grown up and out of the way, I am 
obliged to pay for educating other people's children, and 
supporting, in the alms-house, poor people that have no 
business to be poor. The thoughts of these things worry 
me night and day, and 1 have no rest. O dear ! 

Doct. For how much are you taxed ? 

P. Ten thousand dollars ! It is abominable ! 

Doct. And how much property have you? 

P. What 's that to you? That 's my business, and 
not yours. 

Doct. Weil, if you cannot confide in your physician, 
you must endure your maladies, for I cannot prescribe 
for you unless I know the extent of your disease. 

P. If .you will promise secrecy, doctor 3 I will tell 



60 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

you, but I would 'nt let the assessors know for anything. 
Let me see, [count big on his flngers,] stocks, notes, 
mortgages, — t '11 call it thirty thousand dollars. 

Doct. Is that all ? 

P. Why no, not exactly ; there 's the real estate, 
about twenty thousand dollars more. 

Doct. Fifty thousand dollars ! And you complain 
because you are taxed for ten thousand ! You certainly 
have no just cause for complaint. 

P. That 's not it, doctor; but I want to be used right. 
There's my neighbor Thompson is worth as much as I 
am, and he gets off for eight thousand ; and what is 
worse than all, my money goes for schooling other 
people's children. 

Doct. If you will follow my directions, you can 
easily be cured. You have only to take half an ounce 
of these pills of Philanthropy, weighed in the scales of 
Justice. It may be hard for one of your constitution to 
take the pills, but they will have a tendency to increase 
your benevolence, and cause you to love your neighbors 
as yourself. Your rest will then be sweet and pleasant. 
{Exit Plumb.) 

Enter Patrick O'Brien and Jack Buntlin. 

Patrick. Bless your good soul, docther, and can you 
help poor Patrick O'Brien, and Peggy, and the nine 
small chiltren that has n't had a drop of mate or a dish 
of tay to ate since last Friday was a wake ? And the 
poor little chiltren starving for the want of it ! O dear, 
docther, I lay awake all night draming about it, and 
wake up in the morning to hear 'em crying for murphies, 
the darlints ! 

Doct. Your difficulties relate rather to the body than 
to the mind, and I must help you by operating upon the 
hearts of others. You will take frequent doses of the 
lily of Patience, with the balm of Forgetfulness, and 
relief will shortly come to you. 

Jack Buntlin. ( To Patrick.) Holloa, shipmate ; 
here 's three dollars for you. Two good hard Spanish 
Millers, and one Mexican. [Rings them on the floor.] 
There 's good silver. Take them. They are the last I 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 61 

have left of two hundred and thirty when I was paid off 
from the sloop of war Marion, — fine ship that ! Now go 
home and get food for your young cabin boys, and tell 
them when Jack Buntlin comes here again he'll call 
and see how they come on. {Exit Patrick.') 

{To the doctor.') Now, old fellow, I want you to cure 
me. 

Doct. You must first tell me your complaint. 

Jack. You see, cap'n. I'm apt to get rather taut, and 
carry too much sail: then, you know, a smart breeze 
from the norre'd and east'rd comes up, and I ship the 
cable and go ashore under bare poles : so the craft lays 
on her beam ends. You understand me, capm? 

Doct. I can't say that I do — please be more explicit. 

Jack. Well, cap'n, you see I 'm apt to make more 
lee-way than head-way when I get ashore, and after 
I 'in at home three weeks there aint a shot in the locker. 

Doct. You mean, Jack, that you can't keep your 
money. 

Jack. {Clapping his hands.) That's it, old boy. 
When I come ashore, there are so many sea gulls and 
land pirates that I 'm apt to get on the breakers. Then 
there are so many poor and distressed fellow sailors, it 
makes Jack feel so all-overish just here, [puts his hand 
on his heart,] that he can't help clapping his hand in 
his fob, and giving to the poor fellows ; but then I feel 
doubly paid by the thanks I get. 

Doct. Your infirmity is a very amiable one. It is 
much o uener that I have to treat cases of an opposite 
kind. It is only necessary for you to take some of this 
Temperance cordial, a few grains of these Prudence 
powders, and some drops of this essence of Tranquillity, 
and your infirmity will be cured. 

Jack. Here 's good luck and a sailor's blessing on 
you, cap'n. [Drinking from the bottle of cordial] So 
good-by till next vy'ge. {Exit Jack.) 

Doct. {Solus.) Well, so it is. The world is full of 
strange characters. There was Plumb, who would 
have thought more of giving three cents from his forty- 
five or fifty thousand than this poor, honest, kind-hearted 
tar does of giving all he has. Alas ! almost every one 
6 



04 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

is diseased, but how few are willing to take the proper 
medicine, forsooth, because it chances to be bitter ! They 
think themselves wise, but die fools ! 

But here comes another patient — a mere boy — surely 
he cannot want my advice. 

Enter Frank Careless. 

Frank. My name is Frank Careless, and they tell 
me that you get folks out of trouble, just as easy as other 
doctors cure the toothache. 

Doct. Yes, my child, I profess to eradicate diseases 
of the mind, as the physician does the tooth ; but my 
patients are not always willing to bear the pain. But 
what is your complaint, my lad? 

Frank. I don't want to study so hard. Here I 
have been to the Primary School, reading, and spelling, 
and studying geography and history; and now Thave 
got into another school, they give me bigger books and 
more studies, and there is no end to it. 

Doct. Don 5 t you like your studies 7 

Frank. Yes, I think I like them well enough, so far; 
but the trouble is, there is so much more to do. I like 
the school first rate — I can answer every question in 
Colburn's First Lessons, and that 's more than father 
can do. 

Doct. I see what you need; — take this little root, 
which is called Application, chew a little piece of it every 
time you have a lesson to get, and I will be bound to 
say that you will never again complain of hard studies. 

Frank. Thank you, sir. {Exit Frank.) 

{Doctor alone.) I have spent more time here than I 
expected when I came, but I flatter myself that I have 
done some good in my efforts to bestow happiness upon 
the people. I will now leave this village, and go to 
another place. I have, however, been so well pleased 
and interested in my patients here, that I shall certainly 
visit them at the end of the year, when I hope to find 
that my skill has been rewarded with success. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 63 

THE INDIAN DOCTOR. 
Part II. 

[Interval of a yea?- supposed to have passed.] 
(Doctor at his table.) 

Here I find myself, after a year's absence, in the good 
old witch-hating, money-loving town of A : celebrated 
for its industry, its shoes and leather, its great men and 
good men ; and last, though not least, for its fine ladies. 
I hope it will, in future, be celebrated for its high moral 
and intellectual position. Here comes one of my old 
customers. 

Enter Frank. 

Frank. O doctor, how glad I am to see you ! I want 
somtf more of your root of Application. You don't know 
how easy I have got my lessons since I saw you. Where 
does this famous root grow ? 

Doctor. It flourishes in a hard soil, and is found in 
the vale of Industry. It is a capital plant for scholars. 

F. I find it so, and mean to go to that vale of Industry 
and dig some. With the help of this root, I got the Mul- 
tiplication Table in almost no time, and I can say it all 
by heart, from '-'• twice two"' to ''twelve times twelve." 
If I have a long lesson to get, or a hard sum to do, I just 
take a good lot of this Application root, and then I get 
along first rate. {Exit Frank.) 

Doct. What a bright little fellow ! I am glad some 
good has been effected by my last visit. But here comes 
Patrick, honest Jack, and Mr. Plumb. 

Enter Patrick O'Brien, Jack Buntlin, and Mr. Plumb. . 

Doct Well, Pat, how have you got along since I saw 
you last ? Are Peggy and the children well 1 

Pat. All well, yer honor, and many thanks to you, 
and these- good folks besides. There hasn't, been a 
day since Jack gave me the three dollars, that Patrick 
O'Brien has not had something to eat for all the chil- 
tren, and a bit for the pig. 

Doct. You keep a pig, then 1 ■ 

Pat. That I do. docther. and the natist little hani- 



64 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

mal you ever set your eyes upon. 'T would do yer heart 
good to see his hintelligint countenance when he lays 
down slaping with the chiltren ; and then he talks like a 
book, yer honor; but he don't talk English, he itses his 
own tongue, docther. How Peggy and the little chil- 
tren will cry when the young janetleman goes into the 
pork barrel ! 

Doct. How came you by this remarkable pig ? 

Pat. {Pointing to Mr. Plumb.) Here 's the blessed 
man that gave poor Patrick the pig, all gratis and for 
nothing, bless his ginerous sowl ; and that is not all he 
has given us, by a great dale, besides finding me work 
to do. 

Doct. ( To Mr. Plumb.) Then you have also de- 
rived benefit from my prescriptions. 

Plumb. Most truly I have, and I now come to express 
to you my gratitude for your kindness and skill in effect- 
ing a cure on a patient like myself. Your waters of 
Justice have eased me of a vast many troubles and 
twinges of conscience ; and the pills of Philanthropy 
have changed my disposition from selfish and niggardly 
habits, to liberal and generous feelings towards all around 
me. Nothing now does me so much good as to see the 
poor made happier by the wealth Providence has put in 
my hands ; and my rest at night is sweet and pleasant. 
{Plumb and Patrick go out.) 

Jack. Now, it 's my turn. I say, cap'n, I want 
you to take care of this little blue book for me till I get 
home from the next vy'ge. It 's the Savings Bank book, 
and shows that I have got a hundred and fifty dollars in 
their locker; besides that, I have got a little chink left in 
my pocket, [rattling his money,] to help Patrick O'Brien, 
and give to a poor distressed shipmate. So much for 
your cordial of Temperance, and the essences of Pru- 
dence and Frugality. I must have a new supply, to keep 
the ship in trim for the next vy'ge. Good-by, old fel- 
low, for I 'm in a hurry. 

Enter Wakefield. 

Doct. Well, what effect has the decoction from the lily 
of Patience had on your complaints, friend Wakefield ? 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. ()o 

Wakefield. Most excellent ! By the calmness and 
qniet it has afforded me, I have been able to live down 
all the falsehoods and calumnies which before so much 
annoyed me. I am on good terms with all mankind, and 
nobody seems to wish me ill. I shall always remember 
with gratitude your share in my cure, and hope many 
others, who are in the same situation, will apply the same 
remedy. 

Doct. I am always glad to witness the gratitude of 
my patients, as that is my only reward. 

Wake. You seem to make every article of medicine 
a text for a sermon, by which you give good advice to 
your hearers. 

Doct. Yes, Mr. Wakefield ; but like other preachers, 
I sometimes find that the members of my congregation 
are very willing to take home the text, while they forget 
all about the sermon. This is the second time I have 
visited your flourishing town of A, and I am so much 
encouraged by my success, that I intend, another year, 
to make you another visit : but my engagements now 
oblige me to shut up shop. Farewell ! (Exeunt.) 

DIALOGUE XXV. 
THE NEWS DEALER. 

Mrs. Fidget. 'Tis no such thing, Mr. Timothy; give 
me leave to know the private concerns of a family that 
I have lived with before you were born. 

Timothy. If that's the case, they have no private 
concerns by this time ; they are pretty public now. 

Mrs. F. Jackanapes ! does it follow, that because 1 
sometimes indulge you with my communications, I tell 
them to all the world ? 

T. No, it does not follow ; it generally goes before. 
You retail your knowledge every week-day in small 
paragraphs, and on Sunday you rush forth yourself, fresh 
from the press, a walking journal of weekly communi- 
cation. 

Mrs. F. Well, am I not right there, monkey ? It is 
the moral duty of a Christian to instruct the ignorant, 
and open the minds of the uninformed. 
6* 



66 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

T. Yes, but you are not content with opening their 
minds, but open their mouths, too, and set them a prat- 
ing for a week to come. 

Mrs. F. It requires but little pains, however, to set 
you a prating. Such a tongue ! mercy on me ! gibble, 
gabble, prittle, prattle, forever and ever. 

T. There 's a plumper for you ! When I came to 
live in this house, I never opened my lips for the first 
quarter. The thing was impossible; your eternal clat- 
ter almost starved as well as stunned me ; I could put 
nothing either in or out of my mouth ; I was compelled 
to eat my victuals at midnight, for until you were as fast 
as a church, I was forced to be silent as a grave. 

Mrs. F. Why, sirrah, jackanapes, monkey ! his hon- 
or has suffered your impertinent freedoms till you are 
become quite master of the house, and now I suppose 
you want to be mistress too. 

T. So do you ; and therefore we quarrel. Two of a 
trade, you know 

Mrs. F. But your master shall know of your inso- 
lence. 

T. Let him, — he likes it ; he says himself I am an 
odd fish, a thornback, I suppose, or I should not be able 
to deal with an old maid. 

Mrs. F. Old maid, impudence ! have I lived to this 
day to be called an old maid at last ? Pretty well, in- 
deed ! It is my own fault that I have no husband. 

T. If you had one, he 'd be the most envied mortal 
in England. 

Mrs. F. Why, fellow, why ? 

T. Because there is not such another woman in the 
kingdom. 

Mrs. F. Silence, fellow ! You have certainly mis- 
taken my character. If I know anything of myself, I 
never talk more than is necessary; and as for curiosity, 
nobody has less, or interferes in her neighbor's affairs so 
seldom as I do. 

T. No one has accused you of curiosity ; but now we 
are on the subject, I suppose you have heard the report 
that is about the country. 

Mrs F. Report of what, pray ? 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 67 

T. I am sorry for poor Miss Twist. 

Mrs. F. Miss Twist ! what of her 1 

T. Upon my word, I ought not to have mentioned 
her name. Pray don't say a word about Miss Twist; 
only I thought it might concern her. 

Mrs. F. What mi^ht concern her? 

T. The report. 

Mrs. F. What report 1 

T. Why, that Robert is going to marry Miss Man- 
deville. 

Mrs F. Miss Mandeville ! Miss Mandeville ! 

T. Why yes, Miss Mandeville. But pray don't tell 
the Twists. 

Mrs. F. Not I ; I would not tell them for the world. 

T. No, pray don't tell them; I quite dread their hear- 
ing it ; it would be cruel and unkind to acquaint them 
with it at all abruptly, for I am confident they expected 
him to marry Miss Twist. 

Mrs. F. Indeed, they were sure of it. No, indeed, I 
would not have them told of it for the world. {Putting 
on her bonnet.') 

T. But pray remember not to say a word about it to 
the Twists. 

Mrs. F. O, not for the world ! Good-morning, Mr. 
Timothy. {Exit.) 

( T. alone.) So, with all her want of curiosity, she has 
packed off to the Twists to tell them the news, not a 
word of which is true. So much for gossiping, so much 
for curiosity, so much for ever interfering in the affairs 
of her neighbors ! 



DIALOGUE XXVI. 
NOBILITY. 

Caroline. What a pity it is that we are born under a 
republican government ! 

Horace. Upon my word, that is a patriotic observa- 
tion for an American. 

C. O, I know that it is not a popular one ; we must 
all join in the cry of liberty and equality, and bless our 



68 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

stars that we have neither kings nor emperors to rule 
over us, and that our first audible tones were republican. 
If we don't join in the shout, and hang our hats on 
hickory trees or liberty poles, we are considered unnat- 
ural monsters. For my part, I am tired of it, and I am 
determined to say what I think. I hate republicanism; 
I hate liberty and equality; and I don't hesitate to 
declare, that I am for a monarchy. You may laugh, 
but I would say it at the stake. 

H. Bravo ! why, sister, you deserve to be prime 
minister to the king. 

C. I have no wish to mingle in political broils, not 
even if I could be as renowned as Pitt or Fox ; but I do 
think our equality is odious. Why, this very day, the 
new chamber-maid put her head into my room and said, 
" Caroline ! your marm wants you." 

H. Good ; I suppose if ours were a monarchical 
government, she would have bent one knee to the ground, 
or saluted your little foot with a kiss, before she spoke. 

C. Why, Horace, I am ashamed of you ! You know 
that such forms exist only in the papal dominions. I 
believe his holiness the Pope requires such a ceremony. 

H. Perhaps you would like to be a Pope. 

C. No, I am sure I would not. 

H. May I ask your highness what you would like to 
be? 

C. I should like to be a countess. 

H. You are quite moderate, dear sister ; a countess, 
now-a-days,"is the fag end of nobility. 

C. O, but it sounds so delightfully, — -"The young 
Countess Caroline ! " 

H. If sound is all, you shall be gratified ; we will 
call you " The young Countess Caroline." 

C. But that would be mere burlesque, Horace, and 
make me appear ridiculous. 

H. Really, I think nothing is so absurd as for us to 
be aiming at titles. 

C. Yes, but it would be different if they were hered- 
itary. If we had been born to them, if they came to us 
through belted knights, and high-born dames, then we 
might be proud to wear them. I never cease to regret 
that I was not born under a monarchy. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 69 

It. But you seem to forget that all are not lords and 
ladies in the royal dominions. Suppose you had been 
born among the plebeians, and that it had been your lot 
to crouch and bend, or be trodden under foot by some 
titled personage, whom in your heart you despised; 
what then 1 

C. You may easily suppose that I did not mean to 
take those chances. No ; I meant to be born among the 
higher ranks. 

H. Your own reason must tell you that all cannot 
be born among the higher ranks, for then the lower ones 
would be wanting to constitute the comparison. Now, 
Caroline, we come to the very point. Is it not better to 
be born under a government in which there is the 
extreme neither of high nor low ; where one man cannot 
be raised permanently and preeminently over another ; 
and where true nobility consists of talent and virtue. 

C. That sounds very patriotic, brother : but I am 
inclined to think that wealth constitutes our nobility, 
and the right of abusing each other, our liberty. 

H. You are quite fond of aphorisms, sister ; but they 
are not always true. 

C. Well, is it not true that our rich men, who ride in 
their own carriages, who own fine houses, and who 
count by millions, are our great men ? 

H. They have all the greatness that money can buy, 
but that is very limited. 

C. In my opinion, money is power. 

H. There you err. Money may buy a temporary 
power, but talent is power itself; and, when united to 
virtue, a God-like power, one before which the mere 
man of millions quails. No, give me talents^ health and 
unwavering principle, and I will not ask for wealth, but 
I will carve my own way ; and, depend upon it, wealth 
will be honorably mine. 

C. Well, I am sure I heartily wish you the posses- 
sion of all together — talent, principle and wealth. Really, 
without flattery, the two first you have, and the last, 
according to your doctrine, will come when you beckon 
to it. Now, I assure you, that 1 feel as determined as 
you do to. carve my own way. You may smile ; but, 



70 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

depend upon it, the time is not distant when you shall 
see me in possession of all that rank which any one can 
obtain in our plebeian country. 



DIALOGUE XXVII. 
FORTUNE TELLING. 

Mrs. Credulous. Are you the fortune-teller, sir, that 
knows everything ? 

Fortune Teller. I sometimes consult futurity, madam ; 
but I make no pretensions to any supernatural knowl- 
edge. 

Mrs. C. Ay, so you say ; but everybody else says 
you know everything ; and I have come all the way 
from Boston to consult you, for you must know I have 
met with a dreadful loss. 

F. T. We are liable to losses, in this world, madam. 

Mrs. C. Yes, and I have had my share of them, 
though I shall be only fifty, come Thanksgiving. 

F. T. You must have learned to bear misfortunes 
with fortitude, by this time. 

Mrs. C. I don't know how that is, though my dear 
husband, rest his soul ! used to say, " Molly, you are as 
patient as Job, though you never had any children to 
lose, as he had." 

F. T. Job was a model of patience, madam, and 
few could lose their all with so much resignation. 

Mrs. C. Ah, sir, that is too true ; for even the small 
loss I have suffered overwhelms me. 

F. T. The loss of property, madam, comes home to 
the bosom of the best of us. 

Mrs. C. Yes, sir ; and when the thing lost cannot 
be replaced, it is doubly distressing. When my poor, 
good man, on our wedding-day, gave me the ring, "Keep 
it, Molly," said he, ' : till you die, for my sake." And 
now, that I should have lost it, after keeping it thirty 
years, and locking it up so carefully all the time, as I 
did 

F. T. We cannot be too careful, in this world, 
madam ; our best friends often deceive us. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 71 

Mrs. C. True, sir, true — but who would have 
thought that the child I took, as it were, out of the 
street, and brought up as my own, could have been 
guilty of such ingratitude? She never would have 
touched what was not her own, if her vagabond lover 
had not put her up to it. 

F. T. Ah, madam, ingratitude is the basest of all 
crimes ! 

Mrs. C. Yes, but to think that the impudent crea- 
ture should deny she took it, when I saw it in the pos- 
session of that wretch myself. 

F. T. Impudence, madam, usually accompanies 
crime. But my time is precious, and the star that rules 
your destiny will set, and your fate be involved in dark- 
ness, unless I proceed to business immediately. The 
stars inform me, madam, that you are a widow. 

Mrs. C. La! sir, was you acquainted with my 
deceased husband ? 

F. T. No, madam ; we do not receive our knowledge 
by such means. Thy name is Mary, and thy dwelling- 
place is Boston. 

Mrs. C. Some spirit must have told you this, for 
certain. 

F. T. This is not all, madam. You were married 
at the age of twenty years, and were the sole heir of 
your deceased husband. 

Mrs. C. I perceive, sir, you know everything. 

F. T. Madam, I cannot help knowing what I do 
know ; I must therefore inform you that your adopted 
daughter, in the dead of night 

Mrs. C. No, sir ; it was in the day-time. 

F. T. Do not interrupt me, madam. In the dead 
of night, your adopted daughter planned the robbery 
which deprived you of your wedding-ring. 

Mrs. C. No earthly being could have told you this, 
for I never let my right hand know that I possessed it, 
lest some evil should happen to it. 

F. T. Hear me, madam; you have come all this 
distance to consult the fates, and find your ring. 

Mrs. C. You have guessed my intention exactly, 
sir. 



72 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

F. T. Guessed ! madam. I know this is your 
object ; and I know, moreover, that your ungrateful 
daughter has incurred your displeasure, by receiving the 
addresses of a worthless man. 

Mrs. C. Every word is gospel truth. 

F. T. This man has persuaded your daughter 

Mrs. C. I knew he did ; I told her so. But, good sir, 
can you tell me who has the ring? 

F. T. This young man has it. 

Mrs. C. But he denies it, sir. 

F. T. No matter, madam ; he has it. 

Mrs. C. But how shall I obtain it again ? 

F. T. The law points out the way, madam; it is 
my business to point out the rogue — you must catch 
him. 

Mrs. C. You are right, sir; and if there is a law to 
be had, I will spend every cent I own, but I will have 
it. I knew he was the robber, and I thank you for the 
information. {Going.) 

F. T. But thanks, madam, will not pay for all my 
nightly vigils, consultations, and calculations. 

Mrs. C. O, right,' sir. I forgot to pay you. For 
how much am I indebted to you ? 

F. T. Only five dollars, madam. 

Mrs. C. {Handing him the money.) There it is, 
sir. I would have paid twenty rather than not have 
found the ring. 

F. T. I never take but five. Farewell, madam; 
your friend is at the door with your chaise. 

(He leaves the room.) 

Enter Friend. 

Friend. Well, Mary, what does the fortune-teller 
say? 

Mrs. C. O, he told me I was a widow, and lived in 
Boston, and had an adopted daughter — and 

Friend. But you knew all this before, did you not ? 

Mrs. C. Yes ; but how should he know it ? He 
told me, too, that I had lost a ring, 

Friend. Did he tell you where to find it ? 

Mrs. C. O yes ! he says that fellow has it, and 1 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 73 

must go to law and get it, if he will not give it up. 
What do you think of that ? 

Friend. It is precisely what any fool could have told 
you. But how much did you pay for this precious in- 
formation ? 

Mrs. C. Only five dollars. 

Friend. How much was the ring worth ? 

Mrs. C. Why, two dollars, at least. 

Friend. Then you have paid ten dollars for a chaise 
to bring you here, five dollars for the information that 
you had already, and all this to gain possession of a 
ring not worth one quarter of the expense ! 

Mrs. C. O, the rascal ! how he has cheated me ! I 
will go to the world's end but I will be revenged ! 

Friend. You had better go home, and say nothing 
about it, for every effort to recover your money will 
only expose your "folly. 



DIALOGUE XXVIII. 

children's wishes. 

Susan. 
I wish I was a little bird, 

Among the leaves to dweli ; 
To scale the sky in gladness, 

Or seek the lonely dell. 
My matin song should celebrate 

The glory of the earth ; 
And my vesper hymn ring gladly, 

With the thrill of careless mirth. 

Emily. 

I wish I were a floweret, 

To blossom in the grove ; 
I 'd spread my opening leaflets 

Among the plants I love ; — 
No hand should roughly cull me, 

And bid my odors fly ; 
I silently would ope to life, 

And (juietlv would die. 
7 



74 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Jane. 
I wish I was a gold-fish, 

To seek the sunny wave. 
To part the gentle ripple, 

And 'mid its coolness lave ; 
I 'd glide through day delighted, 

Beneath the azure sky, 
And when night came on in softness, 

Seek the star-light's milder eye. 

Mother. 
Hush, hush, romantic prattlers ! 

You know not what you say, 
When soul, the crown of mortals, 

You would lightly throw away: 
What is the songster's warble, 

And the floweret's blush refined. 
To the noble thought of Deity, 

Within your opening mind ? 



DIALOGUE XXIX. 
CHOICE OF COUNTRIES. 

Father. 
1 would cross the wide Atlantic, 

And the cliffs of England hail, 
For there my country's fathers 

First set their western sail. 
I would view its domes and palaces, 

And tread each learned hall, 
And on the soil where Newton trod 

My foot should proudly fall. 
1 would gaze upon its landscapes, 

The dell and sunny glade, 
And tread, with awe, the cloistered aisle 

Where Addison is laid. 

John. 
I would seek the Indian Ocean, 

Where the sea-shell loves to grow,, 
Where the tints upon its bosom 

In gorgeous beauty glow. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 75 

I would chase the parting billow 

For treasures new and rare, 
And with wreaths of blushing coral 

Entwine my waving hair. 

Amos. 
1 would be a ship's commander, 

And find the northern pole, 
While o'er untravelled oceans 

My venturous bark should roll : 
Or, I 'd seek untrodden islands, 

Amid Antarctic seas, 
And the standard of my country 

Plant first before the breeze. 

Eliza. "j 

Oh, give to me my birth-place, 

My dear, my native home ! 
From its fair and sheltering borders 

I ask not e'er to roam. 
My schoolmates here are playing 

My parents dear I see ; 
Oh, give to me my birth-place,- — 

It is fair enough for me ! 

Mother. 
The whole broad earth is beautiful 

To minds attuned aright, 
And wheresoe'er my feet have turned, 

A smile has met ray sight. 
The city, with its bustling walk, 

Its splendor, wealth, and power, — 
A ramble by the river side, — 

A passing summer flower ; 
The meadow green, the ocean's swell, 

The forest waving free, 
Are gifts of God, and speak in tones 

Of kindliness to me. 
And oh ! where'er my lot is cast, 

Where'er my footsteps roam, 
If those I love are near to me, 

I feel that spot my home. 



76 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE XXX. 
WHY ALEXANDER WAS CALLED GREAT. 

Son. 
How big was Alexander, Pa, 

That people call him great? 
"Was he, like old Goliath, tall — 

His spear an hundred weight? 
Was he so large that he could stand 

Like some tall steeple high ; 
And while his feet were on the ground, 

His hands could touch the sky ? 

Father. 

no, my son ; about as large 
As I or uncle James. 

'T was not his stature made him great, 
But greatness of his name. 

Son. 
His name so great? I know 'tis long, 

But easy quite to spell — 
And more than half a year ago 

I knew it very well. 

Father. 

1 mean, my child, his actions were 

So great, he got a name 
That everybody speaks with praise, 
That tells about his fame. 

Son. 
Well, what great actions did he do? 
I want to know it all. 

Father. 
Why, he it was that conquered Tyre, 

And levelled down her wall, 
And thousands of her people slew; 

And then to Persia went, 
And fire and sword, on every side, 

Through many a region sent ; 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

A hundred conquered cities shone . 

With midnight burnings red, 
And, strewed o'er many a battle ground, 

A thousand soldiers bled. 

So?i. 
Did killing people make him great ? 

Then why was Abdel Young, 
Who killed his neighbor, training day, 

Put into jail and hung ? 
I never heard them call him great ! 

Father. 
Why, no — 'twas not in war — 
And him that kills a single man 
His neighbors all abhor. 

Son, i 

Well, then, if I should kill a man, 

I 'd kill a hundred more ; 
I should be great, and not get hung, 

Like Abdel Young before. 

Father. 
Not so, my son, 'twill never do : — 
The gospel bids be kind. 

Son. 
Then they that kill, and they that praise, 
The gospel do not mind. 

Father. 
You know, my child, the Bible says 

That you must always do 
To other people, as you wish 

To have them do \o you. 

So?i. 
But. Pa, did Alexander wish 

That some strong man would come 
And burn his house, and kill him too, 
And do as he had done ? 
7* 



77 



78 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



And everybody calls him great 

For killing people so ! 
Well, now, what right he had to kill. 

I should be glad to know. 
If one should burn the buildings here, 

And kill the folks within, 
Would anybody call him great, 

For such a wicked thins: ? 



DIALOGUE XXXI. 
HOME. 

Father. 
Dost thou love wandering? Whither would'st thou go ? 

Dream'st thou, sweet daughter, of a land more fair? 
Dost thou not love these aye-blue streams that flow ? 

These spicy forests, and*this golden air ? 

Daughter. 
O, yes, I love the woods and streams so gay ; 

And more than all, O father, I love thee; 
Yet would I fain be wandering — far away, 

Where such things never were, nor e'er shall be. 

Father. 
Speak, mine own daughter with the sun-bright locks ! 
To what pale, banished region would'st thou roam ? 

Daughter. 

father, let us find our frozen rocks ! 

Let 's seek that country of all countries, — Home ! 

Father. 
Seest thou these orange flowers ? this palm that rears 
Its head up towards heaven's blue and cloudless dome ? 

Daughter, 

1 dream, I dream ; mine eyes are hid in tears : 

My heart is wandering round our ancient home. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 79 

Father. 
Why, then, we '11 go. Farewell, ye tender skies, 
Who sheltered us, when we were forced to roam ! 

Daughter. 
On, on Let 's pass the swallow as he flies ! 

Farewell, kind land ! Now, father, now, — for Home ! 



DIALOGUE XXXII. 
CHOICE OF HOURS. 

Father. 
I love to walk at twilight, 

"When sunset nobly dies, 
And see the parting splendor 

That lightens up the skies, 
And call up old remembrances, 

Deep, dim as evening gloom, 
Or look to heaven's promises, 

Like star-light on a tomb. 

Laura. 
I love the hour of darkness, 

When I give myself to sleep. 
And I think that holy angels 

Their watch around me keep. 
My dreams are light and happy, 

As I innocently lie, 
For my mother's kiss is on my cheek, 

And my father's step is nigh. 

Mary. 
I love the social afternoon, 

When lessons all are said, 
Geography is laid aside, 

And grammar put to bed ; 
Then a walk upon the Battery, 

With a friend, is very sweet, 
And some money for an ice-cream, 

To give that friend a treat. 



80 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Mother. 
I love the Sabbath evening, 

When my loved ones sit around, 
And tell of all their feelings, 

By hope and fancy crowned ; 
And though some plants are missing, 

In that sweetly thoughtful hour, 
I will not call them back again 

To earth's decaying bower. 



DIALOGUE XXXIII. 
WOMAN — ACCOUNT CURRENT. 

First Speaker. 
Oh ! the woe that woman brings ! 

Source of sorrow, grief, and pain ! 
All our evils have their springs 

In the first of female train. 

Second Speaker. 
Oh! what joys from woman spring, 

Source of bliss and purest peace ! 
Eden could not comfort bring, 

Till fair woman showed her face. 

First Speaker. 
Eve, by eating, led poor Adam 

Out of Eden and astray; 
Look for sorrow still, where madam, 

Pert and proud, directs the way. 

Seco?id Speaker. 
When she came, good, honest Adam 

Clasped the gift with open arms ; 
He left Eden for his madam, 

So our parent prized her charms. 

First Speaker. 
Courtship is a slavish pleasure, 

Soothing a coquettish train ; 
Wedded, — what's the mighty treasure ?■ 

Doomed to drag a golden chain. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 81 

Second Speaker. 
Courtship thrills the soul with pleasure; 

Virtue's blush on beauty's cheek: 
Happy prelude to a treasure 

Kings have left their thrones to seek ! 

First Speaker. 
Noisy clack and constant brawling, 

Discord and domestic strife ; 
Empty cupboard, children bawling, 

Scolding woman made a wife. 

Second Speaker. 
Lovely looks and constant courting, 

Sweetening all the toils of life ; 
Cheerful children, harmless sporting, 

Lovely woman made a wife ! 

First Speaker. 
Gaudy dress and haughty carriage, 

Love's fond balance fled and gone ; 
These the bitter fruits of marriage ! 

He that 's wise will live alone ! 

Second Speaker. 
Modest dress and gentle carriage, 

Love triumphant on his throne ; 
These the blissful fruits of marriage, — 

None but fools would live alone. 



DIALOGUE XXXIV. 
THE SEASONS CHILDREN'S PREFERENCES. 

Jane. 
I love the Spring, when slumbering buds 

Are wakened into birth ; 
When joy and gladness seem to run 

So freely o'er the earth. 



82 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Charles. : 
I love the Summer, when the flowers 

Look beautiful and bright ; 
When I can spend the leisure hours 

With hoop, and ball, and kite. 

George. 
I love the Autumn, when the trees 

With fruit are bending low; 
When I can reach the luscious plums 

That hang upon the bough. 

Frank. 
I love to have the Winter come, 

When I can skate and slide, 
And hear the noise of merry sleighs 

That swiftly by us glide. 

Anna. 
I love the seasons in their round ; 

Each has delights for me ; 
Wisdom and love in all are found : 

God's hand in each I see. 

Mother. 
You 're right, my child ; remember Him, 

As seasons pass away ; 
And each revolving year will bring 

You nearer heavenly day. 



DIALOGUE XXXV. 
THE FOUR WISHES. 

Charles. 

I ask for power, — that 'neath my sway 

Nations might tremble and obey ; 

Over the sea to stretch my hand, 

And sway my sceptre o'er the land ; 

That the proudest monarch should lay down, 

At will of mine, his iewelled crown; 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 83 

That rich and poor should bend the knee, 

And pay due homage unto me ; 

That the sun's eye should never shine 

On kingdoms that I called not mine ; 

Thus, seated on my lofty throne, 

The whole wide world my sway should own. 

Mother. 

Thirst not for power ! for, rightly used, 
'Twill make some foes; hut, if abused, 
Nations will rise and curses shed — 
Long", loud, deep curses — on thy head ! 
Thirst not for power ! thy life will be 
A life of splendid misery ; 
And thou wilt be the slave of all, 
Though at thy feet the world should fall. 
Thirst not for power ! for, though to-day 
Nations thy slightest will obey, 
Perchance to-morrow thou 'It lay down, 
Before the king of death, thy crown ! 

Albert. 

I ask for riches ; wealth untold ; 
For coffers rilled with glittering gold ; 
For pearls which in the ocean shine, 
And gems that sparkle in the mine ; 
Upon the treasures of each zone 
I 'd lay my hand, and call my own. 
I would each star that decks the sky 
A diamond at my feet might lie ; 
That every leaf, on every tree, 
Would fall in precious stones for me. 
Yes, wealth into my coffers pour, 
Till mortal could not wish for more. 

Mother. 

Oh, ask not gold ! 'twill melt away, 
Like dew-drops in the early day ; 
Oh, ask not gold ! for it will fling 
A fetter o'er the spirit's wing, 
And bind it when it fain would rise 
To seek true riches in the skies. 



84 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Oh, ask not gold ! for it will prove 
A snare, and cause thy feet to rove 
Far from that straight and narrow way, 
Which leads to realms of endless day ! 

Mary. 

I ask for beauty ; for an eye 

Bright as the stars in yonder sky ; 

For tresses on the air to fling, 

And put to shame the raven's wing ; 

Cheeks where the lily and the rose 

Are blended in a sweet repose ; 

For pearly teeth, and coral lip, 

Tempting the honey-bee to sip ; 

And for a fairy foot as light 

As is the young gazelle's in flight. 

And then a small, white, tapering hand,- 

I 'd reign a beauty in the land. 

Mother. 

Sigh not for beauty ! like the flower, 
That opes its petals for an hour, 
And droops beneath the noontide ray, 
So will thy beauty fade away. 
The brightest eye at last must close, 
And on the cheek where blooms the rose 
The hand of death will set his seal, 
O'er it the canker worm will steal. 
Those tresses, rich and glossy now, 
Clustering around the snowy brow, 
Will turn to dust ; yes, beauty's bloom 
Must wither in the silent tomb. 

Eliza. 

I ask the poet's gift ; the lyre, 
With skilful hand to sweep each wire ; 
I 'd pour my burning thoughts in song, 
In lays deep, passionate, and strong, 
Till hearts should thrill at every word, 
As mine is thrilled at song of bird. 
Oh ! I would die, and leave some trace 
That earth has been my dwelling-place ; 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 85 

Would live in hearts forevermore, 
When my frail, fitful life is o'er. 
Oh ! for the gifted poet's power, — 
This is ray wish, be this my dower ! 

Mother. 

A glorious gift ! yet it will be 

A source of sorrow unto thee, 

In this cold, selfish world of ours, 

Where piercing thorns grow 'raid the flowers. 

'T will fill that gentle breast of thine 

With thirst for something too divine ; 

And, like a young, caged bird, whose eye 

Looks out upon the free, blue sky, 

Thy spirit's wing will long to soar 

To seek some far-off, peaceful shore. 

It may not be a happy lot : 

Then, gentle maiden, ask it not. 

AIL 

What shall we ask ? If power will shed 

So many curses on the head ; 

And if the gift of wealth will fling 

A fetter o'er the spirit's wing : 

If beauty blooms but for a day, 

Then like the spring-flower fades away ; 

And if the poet's thrilling lyre 

Will waken such a restless fire 

Within the soul, and make it pine 

With thirst for something too divine ; — 

What shall we ask ? Fain would we know, 

To make us happy while below. 

Mother. 

Oh ! ask for things of nobler worth 
Than the poor, cankering gifts of earth : 
Ask for the treasures of the mind, 
A heart all generous, true, and kind ; 
Ask virtue a green wreath to twine, 
To deck these young, fair brows of thine, — 
A wreath of fadeless buds and flowers, 
Destined to bloom in heaven's own bowers ; 
8 



86 * SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Ask for religion ; it will be 
Worth beauty, fame, and power, to thee , 
And, when this fleeting life is o'er, 
'T will give thee life forevermore ! 



DIALOGUE XXXVI. 
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 

Q. Flowers, wherefore do you bloom ? 

A. "We strew thy pathway to the tomb. 

Q. Stars, wherefore do ye rise ? 

A. To light thy spirit to the skies. 

Q. Fair moon, why dost thou wane ? 

A. That I may wax again. 

Q. O sun, what makes thy beams so bright? 

A. The Word that said — " Let there be light." 

Q. Time, whither dost thou flee ? 

A. I travel to eternity. 

Q. Eternity, what art thou, say? 

A. I was, am, will be evermore, to-day. 

Q. Nature, whence sprang thy glorious frame ? 

A. My Maker called me, and I came. 

Q. Winds, whence and whither do ye blow ? 

A. Thou must be " born again" to know. 

Q. Ocean, what rules thy swell and fall? 

A. The might of Him who ruleth all. 

Q. Planets, what guides you in your course ? 

A. Unseen, unfelt, unfailing force. 

Q. O life, what is thy breath ? 

A. A vapor, vanishing in death. 

Q. O death, where ends thy strife ? 

A. In everlasting life. 

Q. O grave, where is thy victory? 

A. Ask him who rose again for me. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 87 

DIALOGUE XXXVII. 
CHOICE OF OCCUPATIONS. 

John. 
L mean to be a soldier, 

With uniform quite new, — 
I wish they'd let me have a drum, 

And be a captain too : 
I would go amid the battle, 

With my broad-sword in my hand, 
And hear the cannon rattle, 

And the music all so grand. 

Mother. 
My son, my son ! what if that sword 

Should strike a noble heart, 
And bid some loving father 

From his little ones depart ? 
What comfort would your waving plumes 

And brilliant dress bestow, 
When you thought upon his widow's tears, 

And her orphans' cry of woe ? 

William. 
I mean to be a president, 

And rule each rising state, 
And hold my levees once a week, 

For all the gay and great ; 
I '11 be a king, except a crown, — 

For that they won't allow ; 
An I '11 find out what the Tariff is, 

That puzzles me so now. 

Mother. 
My son, my son ! the cares of state 

Are thorns upon the breast, 
That ever pierce the good man's heart, 

And rob him of his rest ; 
The great and gay to him appear 

As trifling as the dust, 
For he knows how little they are worth, — 

How faithless in their trust. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Louisa. 
I mean to be a cottage girl, 

And sit behind a rill, 
And morn and eve my pitcher there 

With purest water fill ; 
And I '11 train a lovely woodbine 

Around my cottage door, 
And welcome to my winter hearth 

The wandering and the poor. 

Mother. 

Louisa, dear, an humble mind 

'Tis beautiful to see, 
And you shall never hear a word 

To check that mind from me ; 
But ah ! remember, pride may dwell 

Beneath the woodbine's shade ; 
And discontent, a sullen guest, 

The cottage hearth invade. 

Caroline. 
I will be gay and courtly, 

And dance away the hours ; 
Music, and sport, and joy, shall dwell 

Beneath my fairy bowers ; 
No heart shall ache with sadness 

Within my laughing hall, 
But the note of love and gladness 

Reecho to my call. 

Mother. 
Oh, children ! sad it makes my soul 

To hear your playful strain ; 
I cannot bear to chill your youth 

With images of pain. 
Yet humbly take what God bestows, 

And, like his own fair flowers, 
Look up in sunshine with a smile, 

And gently bend in showers. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 89 

DIALOGUE XXXVIII. 
WHAT WE LOVE. 

Mary, Ellen, Charles, and Alfred, 

Mary. 
I love the spring, the gentle spring ; 

I love its balmy air, — 
I love its showers, that ever bring 

To us the flow'rets fair. 

All. 
Come, let us sing, we love the spring,— 

We love the summer too, — 
While autumn's fruit each one will suit, 

To winter give his due. 

Ellen. 
I love the summer's sky so bright ; 

I love the fragrant flowers ; 
I love the long, long days of light ; 

But more the shady bowers. 

All. 
Come, let us sing, we love the spring, &c. 

Charles. 
I love the autumn's clust'ring fruit, 

That in the orchard lies ; 
I love its ever-changing suit, 

Its trees of brilliant dyes. 

All. 
Come, let us sing, we love the spring, &c. 

Alfred. 
I love stern winter's ice and snow ; 

I love his blazing fire ; — 
I love his winds that freshly blow, — 

Yes, winter I desire. 

All. 

Come, let us sing, we love the spring, &c. 

8* 



90 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Mary. 
I love the merry birds, that sing, 

So sweet, their morning song, — 
I love to see them on the wing 

Speed gracefully along. 

All 
Yes, we will love the gentle dove, — 

The birds that sing so sweet, 
The fishes all, and insects small, 

The beasts we daily meet. 

Ellen. 
I love beneath the limpid wave 

To see the fishes glide ; 
I love to watch them as they lave 

'So gayly in the tide. 

All. 
Yes, we will love the gentle dove, &c. 

Charles. 
I love each prancing, noble steed ; 

I love the dog, so true ; 
I love the gentle cow ; indeed, 

Without, what could we do ? 

All. 
Yes, we will love the gentle dove, &c. 

Alfred. 
I love the little busy bee ; 

I love the patient ant : 
For they this lesson teach to me, — 

" We need not ever want." 

All. 
Yes, we will love the gentle dove, &c. 

Mary. 

I love the blue and far-off sky; 

I love the beaming sun ; 
The moon and stars, that, up on hign> 

Shine bright when day is done. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 91 

- All. 

We love, on high, to see the sky; 

We love the broad, blue sea ; 
We love the earth, that gave us birth ; 

We love the air so free. 

Ellen. 
I love the very air we breathe ; 

I love, when flow'rets bloom, 
At early morn, or dewy eve, 

To inhale the sweet perfume. 

All. 
We love, on high, to see the sky, &c. 

Charles. 
I love the ocean, vast and grand; 

I love to hear its roar, — 
I love its waves that kiss the sand, 

And those that proudly soar. 

All. 
We love, on high, to see the sky, &c. 

Alfred. 
I love the broad and fruitful earth ; 

I love each hill and dale ; 
I love the spot that gave me birth, — 

My own dear native vale ! 

All. 
We love, on high, to see the sky, &c. 

Mary. 
I love my father, ever kind; 

I love to meet his smile, — 
I love to see him pleasure find 

In watching me the while. 

All. 
Our friends are dear, that we have here, 

But, better far than all. 
There 's one we love, who dwells above, 

And on His name we call. 



92 SCHOOL DIALOGUES, 

Ellen. 
I love full well my mother dear ; 

I love her cheering voice, — 
Her gentle words I wait to hear, — 

They make my heart rejoice ! 

All. 

Our friends are dear, that we have here, &c. 

Charles. 
I love my little brother sweet ; 

I love his words of glee, — 
I love his playful glance to meet, 

His beaming smile to see. 

All. 
Our friends are dear, that we have here, &c. 

Alfred. 
I love my little sister fair ; 

I love her rosy cheek, — 
I love with her each joy to share, 

Her happiness to seek. 

All. 
Our friends are dear, that we have here, &c. 



DIALOGUE XXXIX. 
THE HOMES OF EARTH. 

Maria. 

My home is in the country, 

By a little mountain stream, 
That wakes me every morning 

With its murmur and its gleam 
There are graceful trees around my home, 

And a wild vine trailing o'er : 
And the roses and the columbines 

Grow close beside the door. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 93 

There 's a pleasant hill beside my home, 

And a green and sunny bank, 
Beyond which lieth the meadow fair, 

Where the water- weeds grow dank. 
And down by the water-side we go, 

With the tiny fish to play ; 
It is there we gather the strawb'ries wild, 

In the sunny autumn day. 

Clara. 

My home is not like thy home ; — 

'T is by the glorious sea ; 
And the dashing of its mighty waves 

Is melody to me. 
I love its gleaming billows, 

I love its silver foam ; 
And dearer than earth's quiet vales 

Is that wild sea-side home. 

Beside my home there riseth 

A mountain dark and grand, 
And all around, on every side, 

The solemn fir-trees stand ; 
While the branches, with their moaning, 

And their tossing to and fro, 
Give forth their dirge-like music 

To the dashing waves below. 

Isabel. 

My home is not like thy home ; — 

'T is in the city gay, 
Where the sound of busy human life 

May greet me every day. 
The mighty crowd goes to and fro, 

Like the rocking of the sea ; 
And the pleasant voices of my race 

Are melody to me. 

My home is very beautiful, 

With its marble columns fair ; 
And all that wealth and taste can give 

Of luxury are there. 



94 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

There 's a stately church beside it, 
With its soft-toned Sabbath bell; — 

Oh ! pleasant is my city home, 
And I love — I love it well ! 

Mary. 

My home is not like thy home ; 

Nor is it fair to see ; 
But those I love abide therein, 

And it is dear to me. 
'T is in a narrow alley, 

Where very few pass by, 
And tall, dark houses stand so near, 

I scarce can see the sky. 

But my father, and my mother, 

And my little bird, are there ; 
And, oh ! within our little yard 

My grape-vine groweth fair. 
And it is near to Sabbath school, 

Where I can come to hear 
That, lowly as our home may be, 

We still to God are dear. 

All 

The homes of earth are very fair; — 

By the graceful mountain stream, 
Or where, upon the wild sea-shore, 

The mighty waters gleam. 
Fair are they in the city street, 

Where wealth and fashion dwell ; 
And fair within its alleys small, 

If we but love them well. 

Oh ! ne'er alike may be our homes, 

While we on earth abide ; 
But we will learn of Christ our Lord, 

And in this faith abide : — 
That unto all, both rich and poor, 

The same bright home is given, 
Where we shall ever dwell in joy ; — 

Our home — its name is Heaven. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 95 

DIALOGUE XL. 
THE SEASONS. 

Sarah. 

Winter is gone ! Alas ! its dear delights, — 
The gay amusements of its days and nights, 
Its merry sleigh-rides, and its brilliant balls, 
And all the splendor of its lighted halls, — 
Have given place to spring-time's stupid air, 
To balmy winds, and skies forever fair, 
That make one feel like yawning all day long, 
Despite the twattle of the poet's song. 

Mary. 

Nay, Sarah, there is not, in all the year, 

A season half so beautiful as spring ; 
When all the new, bright things of life appear, 

And birds, and brooks, in every valley sing; 
How can you call it stupid ? Sure, to me, 
This season has more life than all the other three. 

Lucy. 

Oh, no ! not more than summer, Mary, 

When the trees are filled with flowers ; 
When the bees and beetles, Mary, 

Hum within the fragrant bowers. 
Life is then on every twig, 

And life in all the air ; 
And sure, of all the brilliant year, 

The summer is most fair. 

Alice. 

Most fair it may be, Lucy, 

But autumn is most bright, 
When all the woods and shrubby dells 

In rainbow robes are dight ; 
When hills are clothed in yellow 

Beneath the sunset's rays, 
And the harvest moon shines mellow 

Through twilight's purple haze. 



96 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Sarah. 
You speak of natural beauties ! well, even here, 
Winter will shine the jewel of the year ; 
Such nights ! such stars ! through all the cold void gleam- 
ing — 
The wild Aurora up the concave streaming — 
The glittering snow-crust in the moonbeams lying, 
And light with darkness, stars with moonlight, vieing. 
Surely the winter has its natural charms — 
And if it lack the summer's softening balms, 
Its pure, fresh breezes nerve the frame with health, 
And aid the mind to lay up stores of wealth. 
Then the dear fireside joys — the household mirth, 
Around the cheerful and familiar hearth ; 
The sister sewing in some warm, snug nook, 
While brother reads aloud the favorite book; — 
Indeed, indeed, dear girls, is it so strange 
That I dislike this season's sudden change ? 

Mary. 

'T is true, dear Sarah, winter has its joys, 
But spring is beautiful, and full of love ; 

It calls to life what winter's cold destroys, 

And tints the earth beneath, the heaven above. 

Winter is full of comfort, full of bliss — 

But surely, of all seasons, I choose this. 

Lucy. 

I do not blame you, Mary, 

For the spring is full of hope ; 
But then the summer, Mary, 

And the bright-green flowery slope ; 
The woodland beauties, too, 

And the glorious summer air, — 
I do insist, of all the year, 

The summer is most fair. 

Alice. 

Well, Sarah, Mary, Lucy, — 

Since we have each a choice, 
We should be grateful that in each 

We can in turn rejoice. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 97 

Then let us lift our Hearts 

Unitedly in song, 
And praise that wise and loving God, 

To whom all times belong. 

Hymn. — ( Sung by the four.) 

Oh God of spring and autumn, 

Of all the rolling year ! 
We come to praise thy goodness, 

With meekness and with fear. 
We praise Thee for the glory 

That summer spreads o'er earth, 
We bless Thee for the comforts 

Of winter's cheerful hearth. 

Do thou, oh gracious Father, 

Alike, in all thy ways, 
Lead us to trace thy goodness 

With gratitude and praise ! 
If storms beat o'er our pathways, 

We '11 still press firmly on, 
Until we reach that kingdom 

Where Thou wilt be our Sun. 



DIALOGUE SLI. 
WHAT IS MOST BEAUTIFUL? 

[A Dialogue for Eight Little Girls.] 

Susan. 
The stars that gem the brow of night 
Are very beautiful and bright ; 
They look upon us, from the skies, 
With such serene and holy eyes, 
That I have fondly deemed them worlds 
Where joy her banner never furls. 
What marvel, then, that I should love 
The stars that shine so bright above ? 

Ellen. 
The moon that sails serenely through 
Th« skies of evening, deeply blue, 
9 



98 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Perhaps half hidden from the eye 
By some dark cloud that wanders by, 
Yet shines with mellow light and pale, 
Like some fair face beneath a veil, 
Appears more beautiful to me 
Than all the stars I nightly see. 

Mary. 

The golden sun, that rises bright, 
And dissipates the gloom of night, 
Is beautiful, and brighter far 
Than is the largest evening star ; 
Its light at morning or at noon 
Exceeds the brightness of the moon. 
The world indeed were very sad 
Without its beams so warm and glad. 

Hannah. 

The merry birds upon the wing, 
That all day long so sweetly sing, 
And when the stilly evening comes, 
Are sleeping in their leafy homes, 
With plumage yellow, red, and gold, 
Are very pretty to behoid. 
I love to listen to their airs ; 
They drive away my gloomy cares ! 

Maria. 

The brooks that through the meadows go, 

And sing with voices sweet and low, 

Are beautiful to look upon, 

As gladly on their ways they run ; 

The tiny fishes gayly swim 

Their bosoms fair and clear within, 

And flowers that on their margins grow 

Look down to see themselves below. 

Ann. 

The flowers that blossom everywhere, 
And with their fragrance scent the air, 
Are fairer than the birds or brooks, 
With their serene and modest looks ; 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 99 

And though they have no voices sweet, 
Like birds and brooks, our call to greet, 
Yet in their silence they reveal 
Such lessons as the heart can feel ! 

Sarah. 
But there is something brighter far 
Than sun, or moon, or twinkling star; • 

And fairer than a bird or brook, 
Or floweret with its pleasant look : 
It is a simple little child, 
Where heart is pure and undefiled, 
And they who love their parents well 
In loveliness all things excel ! 

Martha. 
The sun, the moon, the stars of night, 
And birds, and brooks, and blossoms bright, 
With richest charms are ever full, — 
With us they are the beautiful ; 
But little children, who are good, 
Whose tender feet have never stood 
In pathways by the sinful trod, — 
They are the beautiful with God ! 



DIALOGUE XLII. 
THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 

Samuel. 
Thomas, from what I 've heard of late, 

There 's not much fear for you to-day, 
As you 've become so temperate, 

You 've signed the temperance pledge, they say. 

Thomas. 
Well, Samuel, though not always true, 

Poor old Miss Gossip's sheet of news 
Yet you 've heard true — I 'm right glad too, 

And sure you '11 not your name refuse ; 
Come, Samuel, see my papers here, — 

'T is what I call my scroll of Fame ; 
Look, what a great long list ! O dear ! 

Come, come, make haste, and add your name. 



100 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Samuel. 

Give you my name? — wait; — not so soon, — 

Keep cool, — first tell me what you mean. 
My name? — before you get that boon, 

Your " scroll of fame" must first be seen. 
Well, Thomas, I cannot but say, 

As far as names — yes, every name 
The merits of a cause can sway, — 

These do not your pretensions shame. 
But pray, dear Thomas, let me know 

What Fame with this can have to do ? 
Or how she '11 her approval show, 

In such a scheme, to me or you ? 

Thomas. 

Why, Samuel, that I '11 do with ease : 

Now just put on your sober thought, 
And think a moment, if you please, 

What this great mighty scheme has wrought ; 
For I 've heard older people say, 

That vice, in its most hideous mien, 
That stalks our land, and spreads dismay, 

Is often with intemperance seen. 
They go, 't is said, clasped side by side, 

Seldom, if ever, known to part; 
Oh yes ! I 've heard they lurking hide, 

And aim at youthful ones their dart ; 
And oft, on such a day as this, 

While Freedom's sons with joy look up, 
She hands her draught of poisoned bliss ; — 

They sip, and find death in the cup. 
Well, Samuel, now you see 'tis here, 

This pledge vows death to such a foe, 
And though we 're small, yet it is clear 

That every little helps, you lmow. 

Samuel. 

But, Thomas, how do you think we 
Could be of use in such a scheme ? 

Suppose all here, as well as me, 

Should pledge, and all our pledge redeem? 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 101 

Thomas. 
What use ? Why, Samuel, only think, 

We 'd raise a temperance army here — 
Don't you believe the foe would shrink 

Before us, in some coming year ? 
You know, we 're told that early age 

Is just the time to form the mind ! 
And now suppose we all engage, — 

A youthful temperance host combine, — 
To wage a war against the foe ; 

Oh ! oh how glad I then should be ! 
'T would swell rny list of members so, 

And be a great, great Fourth to me ! 

Samuel. 
Well, Thomas, you may take my name, 

And I will help you, all I can, 
To swell your great long scroll of Fame ; 

If, when you grow to be a man, 
You '11 let me see it ! - — dearest me ! 

If you try as you 've tried to-day, 
Why, what a wondrous list 't would be ! 

I 'd like to know what it would say ! 



DIALOGUE XLIII. 
THE LITTLE PHILOSOPHER. 

Mr. L. {Looking at the boy, and admiring his ruddy, 
cheerful countenance.} I thank you, my good lad ! you 
have caught my horse very cleverly. What shall I 
give you for your trouble ? {Putting his hand into his 
pocket.} 

Boy. I want nothing, sir. 

Mr. L. Don't you ? so much the better for you. Few 
men can say as much. But pray what were you doing 
in the field '? 

B. I was rooting up weeds, and tending the sheep 
that are feeding on the turnips, and keeping the crows 
from the corn. 

Mr. L. And do you like this employment? 
9* 



102 SCHOOL DIALOGUES, 

B. Yes, sir, very well, this fine weather. 

Mr. L. But had you not rather play ? 

B. This is not hard work; it is almost as good as 
play. 

Mr. L. Who sent you to work? 

B. My father, sir. 

Mr. L. Where does he live? 

B. Just by, among the trees, there, sir. 

Mr. L. What is his name ? 

B. Thomas Hurdle, sir. 

Mr. L. And what is yours ? 

B. Peter, sir. 

Mr. L. How old are you ? 

B. I shall be eight at Michaelmas. 

Mr. L. How long have you been out in this field? 

B. Ever since six in the morning, sir. 

Mr. L. And are you not hungry? 

B. Yes, sir ; I shall go to my dinner soon. 

Mr. L. If you had sixpence now, what would you do 
with it? 

B. I don't know ; I never had so much in my life. 

Mr. L. Have yon no playthings ? 

B. Playthings! what are they? 

Mr. L. Such as balls, ninepins, marbles, tops, and 
wooden horses. 

B. No, sir ; but our Tom makes footballs to kick in 
cold weather, and we set traps for birds ; and then I 
have a jumping-pole, and a pair of stilts to walk through 
the dirt with ; and I had a hoop, but it is broken. 

Mr. L. And do you want nothing else ? 

B. No, sir ; I have hardly time for those ; for I always 
ride the horses to the field, and bring up the cows, and 
run to the town on errands; and these are as good as 
play, you know. 

Mr. L. W r ell, but you could buy apples or ginger- 
bread at the town, I suppose, if you had money. 

B. Oh ! — I can get apples at home ; and as for gin- 
gerbread, I don't mind it much, for my mother gives me 
a piece of pie, now and then, and that is as good. 

Mr. L. Would you not like a knife to cut sticks ? 

B. I have one — here it is — brother Tom gave it me. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 103 

Mr. L. Your shoes are full of holes — don't you want 
a better pair ? 

B. I have a better pair for Sundays. 

Mr. L. Bat these let in water. 

B. I don't care for that; they let it out again. 

Mr. L. Your hat is all torn, too. 

B. I have a better hat at home; but I had as lief 
have none at all, for it hurts my head. 

Mr. L. What do you do when it rains? 

B. If it rains very hard, I get under the hedge till it 
is over. 

Mr. B. What do you do. when you are hungry be- 
fore it is time to go home ? 

B. I sometimes eat a raw turnip. 

Mr. L. But if there are none ? 

B. Then I do as well as I can ; I work on, and never 
think of it. 

Mr. L. Are you not dry, sometimes, this hot weather? 

B. Yes, sir : but there is water enough. 

Mr. L. Why, my little fellow, you are quite a philos- 
opher ! 

B. Sir? 

Mr. L. 1 say you are a philosopher ; but I am sure 
you do not know what that means. 

B. No, sir — no harm, I hope. 

Mr. L. No, no ! Well, my boy, you seem to want 
nothing at all ; so I shall not give you money, to make 
you want anything. But were you ever at school ? 

B. No, sir ; but father says I shall go, after harvest. 

Mr. L. You will want books then. 

B. Yes, sir ; the boys have all a spelling-book, and a 
Testament. 

Mr. L. Well, then, I will give you them — tell your 
father so, and that it is because I thought you a very 
good, contented boy. — So now go to your sheep again. 

B. I will, sir.— Thank you. 

Mr. L. Good-by, Peter. 

B. Good-by, sir. 



104 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



DIALOGUE XLIV. 
HOW TO TELL BAD NEWS. 

Mr. G. Ha ! steward, how are you, my old boy ? 
how do things go on at home ? 

Steward. Bad enough, your honor ; the magpie 's 
dead. 

Mr. G. Poor Mag ! so he 's gone. How came he to 
die? 

Steward. Over-ate himself, sir. 

Mr. G. Did he, indeed? — a greedy dog! Why, 
what did he get that he liked so well ? 

Steward. Horse-flesh, sir; he died of eating horse- 
flesh. 

Mr. G. How came he to get so much horse-flesh ? 

Steward. All your father's horses, sir. 

Mr. G. What ! are they dead, too ? 

Steward. Ay, sir ; they died of over- work. 

Mr. G. And why were they over- worked, pray? 

Stevmrd. To carry water, sir. 

Mr. G. To carry water ! and what were they carry- 
ing water for ? 

Steward. Sure, sir, to put out the fire. 

Mr. G. Fire ! what fire ? 

Steward. Oh ! sir, your father's house is burned down 
to the ground. 

Mr. G. My father's house burned down ! and how 
came it on fire ? 

Steioard. I think, sir, it must have been the torches. 

Mr. G. Torches ! what torches ? 

Steward. At your mother's funeral. 

Mr. G. My mother dead ! 

Steward. Ah ! poor lady, she never looked up after it. 

Mr. G. After what? 

Steward. The loss of your father. 

Mr. G. My father gone, too ? 

Steward. Yes, poor gentleman, he took to his bed as 
soon as he heard of it. 

Mr. G. Heard of what? 

Steivard. The bad news, sir, an' please your honor. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 105 

Mr. G. What! more miseries ! more bad news? 

Steward. Yes, sir; your bank has failed, and your 
credit is lost; and you are not worth a shilling in the 
world. I made bold, sir, to come to wait on you about 
it; for I thought you would like to hear the news ! 



DIALOGUE XLV. 
METAPHYSICS. 

Professor. What is a salt-box? 

Student. It is a box made to contain salt. 

Prof. How is it divided ? 

Stud. Into a salt-box, and a box of salt. 

Prof. Very well ; show the distinction. 

Stud. A salt-box may be where there is no salt, but 
salt is absolutely necessary to the existence of a box of 
salt. 

Prof. Are not salt-boxes otherwise divided? 

Stud. Yes, b}^ a partition. 

Prof. What is the use of this division? 

Stud. To separate the coarse salt from the fine. 

Prof. How ? think a little. 

Stud. To separate the fine salt from the coarse. 

Prof. To be sure ; to separate the fine from the 
coarse; but are not salt-boxes otherwise distinguished? 

Stud. Yes, into possible, positive, and probable. 

Prof. Define these several kinds of salt-boxes. 

Stud. A possible salt-box is a salt-box yet unsold, in 
the joiner's hands. 

Prof. Why so ? 

Stud. Because it hath not yet become a salt-box, hav- 
ing never had any salt in it; and it may possibly be 
applied to some other use. 

Prof. Very true ; for a salt-box which never had, hath 
not now, and perhaps never may have, any salt in it, can 
only be termed a possible salt-box. What is a probable 
salt-box ? 

Stud. It is a salt-box in the hand of one going to a 
shop to buy salt, and who hath two cents in his pocket 



106 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

to pay the shop-keeper ; and a positive salt-box is one 
which hath, actually and bona fide, got salt in it. 

Prof. Very good: what other division of salt-boxes 
do yon recollect ? 

Stud. They are divided into substantive and pendent. 
A substantive salt-box is that which stands by itself on 
the table or dresser, and the pendent salt-box is that 
which hangs by a nail against the wall. 

Prof. What is the idea of a salt-box ? 

Stud. It is that image which the mind conceives of a 
salt-box when no salt is present. 

Prof. What is the abstract idea of a salt-box ? 

Stud. It is the idea of a salt-box abstracted from a 
box of salt, or a salt-box. 

Prof. Very right ; by this means you acquire a most 
perfect knowledge of a salt-box ; but tell me, is the idea 
of a salt-box a salt idea 1 

Stud. Not unless the ideal box hath the idea of salt 
contained in it. 

Prof. True ; and therefore an abstract idea cannot be 
either salt or fresh, round or square, long or short; and 
this shows the difference between a salt idea, and an idea 
of salt. Is an aptitude to hold salt an essential or an 
accidental property of a salt-box 1 

Stud. It is an essential, but if there should be a crack 
in the bottom of the box, the aptitude to spill salt would 
be termed an accidental property of that salt-box. 

Prof Very well, very well indeed. What is the salt 
called with respect to the box ? 

Stud. It is called its contents. 

Prof. And why so? 

Stiid. Because the cook is content to find plenty of 
salt in the box. 

Prof Very satisfactory indeed ; that will suffice for 
the present. Your answers have certainly indicated a 
very discriminating mind. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 107 

DIALOGUE XLVI. 
FORTUNE'S FROLIC. 

{Robin Roughhead, alone.) 

Robin. Ah ! work, work, work ! all day long, and 
no such thing as stopping a moment to rest ; for there's 
old Snacks, the steward, always upon the look-out; and 
if he sees one, slap *he has it down in his book, and then 
there 's a sixpence gone plump. (Comes forward.) I 
do hate that old chap, and that 's the truth on't. Now, 
if I was lord of this place, I'd make one rule — there 
should be no such thing as work ; it should be one long 
holiday all the year round. Your great folks have 
strange whims in their heads, that's for sartin. I don't 
know what to make of 'um, not I. Now, there 's all 
yon great park there, kept for his lordship to look at, 
and his lordship has not seen it these twelve years, Ah! 
if it was mine, I 'd let all the villagers turn their cows in 
there, and it should not cost 'em a farthing ; then, as the 
parson said last Sunday, I should be as rich as any in 
the land, for I should have the blessings of the poor. 
Dang it! here comes Snacks. Now I shall get a fine 
jobation, I suppose. 

(Enter Snacks, bowing very obsequiously — Robin takes his 
cap off, and stands staring at him.) 

Rob. I be main tired, Master Snacks ; so I stopt to 
rest myself a little. I hope you '11 excuse it. 

Snacks. Excuse it! I hope your lordship's infinite 
goodness and condescension will excuse your lordship's 
most obsequious, devoted, and very humble servant, 
Timothy Snacks, who is come into the presence of 
your lordship, for the purpose of informing your lord- 
ship 

Rob. Lordship ! ha, ha, ha ! Wall ! I never knew as 
I had a hump before ! Why, Master Snacks, you grow 
funny in your old age. 

Snacks. No, my lord, I know my duty better ; I 
should never think of being funny with a lord. 



108 - SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Rob. What lord? Oh, you mean the Lord Harry, 1 
suppose. No, no, you must not be too funny with him, 
or he '11 be after playing the very deuce with you. 

Snacks. I say, I should never think of jesting with a 
person of your lordship's dignified character. 

Rob. Dig — dig — what? Why, now I look at you, 
I see how it is ; you are mad. I wonder what quarter 
the moon 's in. Dickens ! how your eyes do roll ! I 
never saw you so before. How came they to let you 
out alone ? 

Snacks. Your lordship is most graciously pleased to 
be facetious. 

Rob. Why, what gammon are you at? Don't come 
near me, for you 've been bit by a mad dog; I 'm sure 
you have. 

Snacks. If your lordship would be so kind as to read 
this letter, it would convince your lordship. Will your 
lordship condescend? 

Rob. Why, I would condescend, but for a few rea- 
sons ; and one of 'em is, that I can't read. 

Snacks. I think your lordship is perfectly right ; for 
these pursuits are too low for one of your lordship's 
nobility. 

Rob. Lordship, and lordship again! I'll tell you 
what, Master Snacks — let's have no more of your fun; 
for I won't stand it any longer, for all you be steward 
here. My name's Robin Roughhead, and if you don't 
choose to call me by that name, I shan't answer you; 
that 's flat. 

Snacks. Why, then, Master Robin, be so kind as to 
attend, whilst I read this letter. (Reads.) "Sir, — 
This is to inform you, that my Lord Lackwit died this 
morning, after a very short illness; during which he 
declared that he had been married, and had an heir to 
his estate : the woman he married was commonly called, 
or known, by the name of Roughhead : she was poor 
and illiterate, and, through motives of false shame, his 
lordship never acknowledged her as his wife. She has 
been dead several years, and left behind her a son, 
called Robin Roughhead. Now this said Robin is the 
legal heir to the estate. I have therefore sent you the 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



109 



necessary writings to put him into immediate posses- 
sion, according to his lordship's last will and testament. 
Yours to command, " Kit Codicil, Atty at Law." 

Rob. What! — What, all mine 7 the houses, the trees, 
the fields, the hedges, the ditches, the gates, the horses, 
the dogs, the cats, and the hens, and the cows, and the 
pigs, and the — what ! are they, are they all mine? and 
1, Robin Roughhead, am the rightful lord of all this 
estate ? Don't keep me a minute, now, hut tell me, is it 
so? Make haste, tell me — quick, quick! 

Snacks. I repeat it. — the whole estate is yours. 

Rob. Hurra ! Hurra ! Set the bells a ringing ; set 
the ale a running; set — go get my hat full of guineas 
to make a scramble with ; call all the tenants together. 
I'll lower their rents — I'll 

Snacks. I hope your lordship will do me the favor 
to 

Rob. Why, that may be as it happens ; 1 can't tell. 

Snacks. Will your lordship dine at the castle to-day ? 

Rob. Yes. 

Snacks. What would your lordship choose for din- 
ner ? 

Rob. Beef-steaks and onions, and plenty of 'em. 

Snacks. {Aside.) Beef-steaks and onions! What a 
dish for a lord ! 

Rob. What are you at there, Snacks? Go, get me 
the guineas — make haste; I '11 have the scramble, and 
then I '11 go to Dolly, and tell her the news. 

Snacks. Dolly! Pray, my lord, who's Dolly? 

Rob. Why, Dolly is to be my lady, and your mis- 
tress, if I find you honest enough to keep you in my 
employ. 

' Stiacks. Why, I have a beauteous daughter, who is 
allowed to be the very pink of perfection. 

Rob. Hang your daughter ! I have got something 
else to think of: don't talk to me of your daughter : stir 
your stumps, and get the money ! 

Snacks. I am your lordship's most obsequious. 
{Aside.) Zounds ! what a peer of the realm ! {Exit.) 

Rob. Ha ! ha ! ha ! What work I will make in the 
village ! Work ? no. there shall be no such thing as 
10 



110 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

work : it shall be all play. Where shall I go? I'll go 
to — no, I won't go there! I'll go to Farmer Hedge- 
stakes, and tell him — no, I '11 not go there ; I '11 go — 1 '11 
go nowhere; yes, I will; I'll go everywhere; I'll be 
neither here nor there, nor anywhere else. How pleased 
Dolly will be when she hears 

{Enter villagers, shouting.) 

Dick, Tom, Jack, how are you, my lads? Here 's news 
for you! Come, stand round, make a ring, and I'll 
make a bit of a speech to you. ( They all get round 
him.) First of all, I suppose Snacks has told you that 
I 'm your landlord ? 

Villagers. We are all glad of it. 

Rob. So ami; and I'll make you all happy; I'll 
lower all your rents. 

All. Hurra ! long live Lord Robin ! 

Rob. You shan't pay no rent at all ! 

All. Hurra ! hurra ! long live Lord Robin ! 

Rob. I '11 have no poor people in the parish, for I '11 
make 'em all rich ; I '11 have no widows, for I '11 marry 
'em all. {All shout.) I '11 have no orphan children, for 
I'll father 'em all myself; and if that's not doing as a 
lord should do, then I say I know nothing about the 
matter — that 's all. 

All. Hurra ! hurra ! 

(Enter Snacks, with pieces of tin or paper.) 

Snacks. I have brought your lordship the money. 
(Aside.) He means to make 'em fly; so I have taken 
care the guineas shall be all light. 

Rob. Now, then, young and old, great and small, 
little and tall, merry men all, here 's for you. (Throws 
the pieces, and they scramble.) Now you've filled your 
pockets, come to the castle, and I '11 fill all your mouths 
for you. 

All. Hurra ! hurra ! (Exeunt.) 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Ill 

DIALOGUE XLVII. 
THE SERVANT BECOME MASTER. 

(A table, with decanters and glasses.) 

Robin. Well, Snacks, this is very good stuff; I don't 
know as ever I drank any before ; what do you call this, 
Snacks ? 

Snacks. Red port wine, an' it please your lordship. 

Rob. Yes, red port wine pleases his lordship. — I won- 
der where this comes from. — Oh ! from the Red Sea, I 
suppose. 

Snacks. No, my lord; there 's plenty of spirits there, 
but not wine, I believe. 

Rob. Well, one more thing full ; only one, because, 
you know, now 1 am a lord, I must not make a beast of 
myself; — that's not like a nobleman, you know. 

Snacks. Your lordship must do as your lordship 
pleases. 

Rob. Must I ? then give us t' other sup. 

Snacks. {Aside.) I think his lordship is getting rather 
forward. 

[Enter servant.) 

Serv. {To Snacks.) Please you, Master Snacks, 
here's John the carter says he's so lame he can't walk, 
and he hopes you '11 let him have the pony to-morrow, to 
ride by the wagon. 

Snacks. Can't walk, can't he? — lame, is he? 

Serv. Yes, sir. 

Snacks. And what does he mean by being lame at 
this busy time? — tell him he must walk; it's my will. 

Rob. {Aside to servant.) You, sir, bring me John's 
whip, will you ? — {Exit servant.) — That 's ■ right, 
Snacks ; the lazy fellow ! what business has he to be 
lame ! 

Snacks. Oh, please your lordship, it's as much as I 
can do to keep these fellows in order. 

Rob. Oh, they are sad dogs; — can't walk, indeed ! I 
never heard of such impudence. 



112 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Snacks. Oh, shameful, shameful ! if I were behind 
him, I 'd make him walk. 

{Enter servant with a whip, which he gives to liolin.) 

Rob. Come, Snacks ; dance me a hornpipe. 

Snacks. What? 

Rob. A hornpipe. 

S?iacks. A hornpipe ! — I can't dance, my lord ; never 
danced in my life. 

Rob. Come, none of your nonsense ! I know you can 
dance ; why, you was made for dancing. — Come, 
begin ! 

Snacks. There 's no music. 

Rob. Isn't there? then* I'll soon make some. — 
{Takes the whip.) Look ye, here's my fiddlestick; 
how d'ye like it? — Come, Snacks, you must dance; 
it 's my will. 

Snacks. Indeed, I 'm not able. 

Rob. Not able! Oh, shameful, shameful! Come, 
come; you must dance ; it's my will. ( Whips him.) 

Snacks. Must 1? — Then here goes. {Hops about.) 

Rob. What, do you call that dancing fit for a lord ? 
Come, quicker, quicker. — {Whips Snacks round the 
stage, %oho roars out.) — There, that will do; now go 
and order the pony for John the carter — will you? 

Snacks. {Aside.) What a cunning dog he is ! — he's 
up to me now, but 1 think I shall be down upon him by 
and by. {Exit.) 

Rob. {Alone.) Ha, ha, ha ! how he hopped about 
and hallooed! — but I'll work him a little more yet. 
{Re-enter Snacks.) Well, Snacks, what d' ye think of 
your dancing-master? 

Snacks. I hope your lordship won't give me any 
more lessons at present ; for, to say the truth, I don't 
much like the accompaniment. 

Rob. You must have a lesson every day, or you '11 
forget the step. 

Snacks. No; — your lordship has taken care that I 
shan't forget it for some time. 

Rob. I can't think where Dolly is; I told her to come 
to me. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 113 

Snacks. My daughter 's very beautiful. 

Rob. Why, you talk a great deal about your daugh- 
ter, and I '11 have a peep at her. I wish Dolly would 
come. 

Snacks. Oh, don't think of her. 

Rob. Not think of her ! why, pray ? 

Snacks. Oh. she 's too low for your lordship. 

Rob. Take care, Snacks, or I shall make you dance 
another hornpipe. Too low ! why, what was I just 
now ? If I thought riches would make me such a ras- 
cal as to use the poor girl ill, — a fig for 'em all! I'd 
give 'em up, and be plain Robin, honest Robin Rough- 
head, again. 



DIALOGUE XLVIII. 
UNCHARITABLENESS. 

Caroline. How proud Ellen Stanton is ! She thinks, 
I suppose, that she is a great deal better than other 
folks. 

Mary. You seem to be rather out of humor, Caroline. 
What makes you think Ellen is proud? 

C. What makes me think she is proud ? Why, she 
scarcely speaks to me when she meets me ; and I ob- 
served that she said but little last evening, at the party, 
except to the Merton girls, and that Mr. Carlton. She 
could talk fast enough with them. The rest of us were 
not quite refined enough, I suppose, for the very intel- 
lectual Miss Ellen ! 

M. You are very severe in your remarks, and very 
unjust, too, I think. 

C. I may be severe, but I don't believe I am unjust. 
Several of the girls have told me they thought her 
proud. Susan and Maria both think as I do about, it. 

M. They all think she is proud, do they ? 

C. Yes. 

M. Well, they all came to that conclusion in the same 
way, I presume, that you did; but you all judge her 
wrongly. I know her better than you do. 

C. And do you pretend to sav she is not proud 1 
10* 



114 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

M. I do pretend to say she is not proud in the way 
you mean. Yon don't understand her feelings. She is 
no more proud than you are; and, begging your pardon, 
I think not quite so much so. 

C. Why don't she speak to me, and talk more with 
me and others? 1 don't believe but that she is proud. 

M. Did it ever occur to you that she might think the 
same of yon? You hardly speak to her. It is your 
duty to make the first advances. Ellen came among us 
a stranger, and has not had time to get acquainted. It 
is that diffidence and shrinking delicacy which always 
characterize a noble soul, and not pride, that makes her 
so reserved. When you get better acquainted with her, 
you will not call her proud. 

C. Well, perhaps I may be wrong; but I always 
thought she was proud, and have therefore always held 
my head pretty high when in her company. 

M. Yes, you own now that you have been guilty of 
the very thing you complain of in Ellen. 

C. That 's the way you always turn what I say 
against me! but I don't like Ellen, after all; and there 
are several other girls of our acquaintance whom I don't 
like. I almost hate Julia Barton ! She is so deceitful. 
She pretends to be so good and kind, and is so very po- 
lite ! I know it is all sham ! 

M. I am sorry you are so uncharitable. I never saw 
anything bad about Julia. I like her. 

C. Well, I don't. I don't believe she is what she 
pretends to be, — so very good. 

M. I never thought she pretended to be very good. 
I think she is a good girl, and that you have judged her 
harshly and unjustly. I am sorry that you have got 
this habit of judging so harshly every one who does not. 
happen to suit your fancy on first acquaintance. Both 
Ellen and Julia would feel hurt by your remarks, should 
they ever come to their ears. 

C. I don't wish to hurt the feelings of any one ; but 
I 'm sure there can be no harm in telling you what I 
think of a person. You will not tell them what I say. 

M. No ; but do you not say the same things to oth- 
ers? 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 115 

C. Perhaps 1 do, to some others. 

M. Well, did it never occur to you that by talking in 
the way you have done about them, you may make 
others think ill of them ') Many an innocent person has 
become the object of general dislike, and even of hatred, 
by being thus talked about. You would not like to 
have others talk about you, as you have talked about 
Ellen and Julia. 

C. No; I should not. But 1 warrant others do talk 
about me, though. 

M. Well, if they do, that is no reason why you should 
talk about them. We should do as we would be done 
by. Do you recollect a passage in our Sunday school 
lesson of last week that will apply to the subject about 
which we are talking 1 

C. No, I do not. 

M. I am sorry you have so soon forgotten it. It is 
this : " Judge not, that ye be not judged." 

C. O, yes ; I recollect it now, and what our teacher 
said about it. He said that, as God alone can see the 
heart, and know the motives of human conduct, he alone 
can always judge correctly ; and that we ought to refrain 
from passing judgment upon our neighbors. I feel that 
I am guilty in this matter, and 1 thank you for remind- 
ing me of my duty. 

M. Let us both, for the future, be more careful what 
we say about our companions, remembering that even 
those whom we feel disposed to judge most harshly 
may, after all, be better than ourselves. 



DIALOGUE XLIX. 
ABOUT LAUGHTER. 



Ann. About what did our pastor promise to write us 
a dialogue 1 

Bertha. About laughing. 

Clara. Why, what made him promise that? 

B. Because, I asked him to have something lively, 
funny, or witty, to make folks laugh. 



116 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Delia. Well, then, you think it is better to make 
folks laugh than cry — don't you 1 

B. Yes, I 'm sure I do. 

C. But is there any need of making folks laugh, in 
order to keep them from crying ? 

A. I shouldn't think there was; for people can be 
just as happy when they are cheerful, as when they are 
laughing. 

B. True enough ; but yet you love a real good hearty 
laugh — don't you? 

A. To be sure I do ; because I think it does one good 
to laugh sometimes. 

C. Yes. sometimes; but not to be giggling all the 
time. 

D. We are not talking about giggling, but about 
laughing ; and I think there is a great difference between 
them. 

C. Please explain — will you ? 

D. O yes: I call that giggling, when persons seem 
to have no command over their risibles, and are all the 
time ready to chuckle, as though they had thought of 
something very funny. 

C. Well, I 'm sure I don't like that; for to be all the 
time ready to gee-hee, as it may be called, will make the 
company nervous. 

B. That 's all true ; but a genuine good laugh is first- 
rate exercise, I declare. 

A. No one will dispute that ; and I think many need 
such exercise. 

B. Indeed they do; for I have seen a company sit as 
grave as judges in court, till some witty soul came in, 
and made some good laugh go round the room, and 
made all lively and social. 

C. Then you think there is no harm in laughing? 

B. I'm sure I don't; for how can I help laughing 
sometimes, when I see very funny things 1 

D. I don't suppose anybody thinks it is wrong to 
laugh sometimes; for even Solomon said, " There is a 
time to laugh." 

C. But that was a good while ago. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 117 

D. True enough ; but I guess there are as many 
laughable things in the world, now as then. 

C. That may be — but don't you think a religious 
girl ought to be very serious I 

D. That depends upon what you mean by being 
serious. 

B. That 's just what I was going to say. 

A. And so was I : because when a person now begins 
to think, as every one ought to, about religion, it is said, 
11 She is becoming serious." 

C. So it is ; but I think that such an one should be 
grave and thoughtful. 

D. And I J m sure I do. 

C. Do you? Well, then, just remember what the 
poet has said — 

" The loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind." 

B. I don't believe it. 
4. Why don't you? 

B. Because empty clouds don't thunder. 

D. True enough; but you don't notice that the poet 
speaks of the "loud laugh," by which I suppose he 
alludes to rude and boisterous laughter. 

B. Well, I don't like that kind: I won't advocate it; 
but I do declare that all those who laugh heartily, with 
a good, sound, real laugh, are not persons of a vacant 
mind. 

A. I guess, then, you think just as the man did who 
said he never knew a real bad man to laugh heartily. 

B. I do, — for a clear sound never comes from a 
cracked mug. 

D. But how shall we know what kind of laughter is 
just? 

C. W ell, I think that we can decide very easily. 

D. Do tell us, then, that we may have some rule. 
B. Well, that's laughable enough — to ask for a rule 

to laugh by. 

D. I 'm sure some folks need one, for they laugh 
against all rules of propriety — in the street just as freely 
as they do in the house, and, sometimes, in the church, 
rudely. 



118 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

A. Well, let 's have the rule. 

C. O dear ! I didn't think of laying clown rules, but 
only said we could easily decide when laughter was 
just. 

A. Please, then, let us know your easy way of de- 
ciding. 

C. I will, most cheerfully ; and that way is, never to 
laugh at the infirmities of others, or at their misfortunes, 
or in any way or at any time to give pain to others. 

D. That is an easy rule; for many times what is 
comic to us is tragic to others. 

B. Yes, as the frogs in the fable said to the boys that 
were pelting them, — "It may be sport to you, but it is 
death to us." 

A. According to that, then, I think we have made a 
very good use of our talk about laughing. 

C. So do I ; for there are many persons who will jest 
others hard enough, but will not bear anything them- 
selves. 

D. Such shouldn't jest; for we should be willing to 
receive back the coin we pay out. 

B. Just so ; and let us be sure that all our coin be the 
gold and silver of good humor, stamped by goodness and 
truth. 



DIALOGUE L. 
FASHION. 



Mary. Good-evening, cousin Elizabeth ; I am heart- 
ily glad to see you this evening, for my poor brain needs 
relief; and I know of no one with whom I can converse 
with more pleasure than yourself. 

Elizabeth. You know, cousin Mary, I am always on 
hand, or at least I like to be, in a good cause ; and now 
pray let me know what it is which so much affects your 
brain at this time, and renders you so loquacious. 

M. Why, coz, I have been conversing for some time 
to-day with our friend, Isabella Morton, who, you know, 
is, in the main, a good girl, only her ideas of fashion are 
so extravagant, that I can never enter into conversation 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 119 

with her upon that subject, without having my patience 
really tried. 

E. Well, what is the matter with poor Isabella now 1 
I saw her this morning, and concluded that something 
went wrong, for she hardly noticed me, and looked as 
if she was deep in meditation. 

M. I guess she was deep in meditation : but it did 
not. partake much of "Hervey's Meditation,"' I'll assure 
you. You know she was not at church or Sabbath school 
last Sunday, and the only reason she could give was, 
that she could not tip her bonnet quite enough for the 
present style, and that her dress, which she had made 
last winter, was quite too far " a one side" of the fash- 
ion to suit her taste. 

E. Is it possible that she stayed from meeting, and 
even from the Sabbath school, when she knew our les- 
son was so interesting, merely because her dress was not 
altogether in the style of the present fashion ? 

Fashion ! fashion ! O, what a heartless word! 

Cousin Mary, I am heartily sick of it. If our young 
friends, and even some older ones, would think as much 
of cultivating the mind as they do of studying the fash- 
ion, I think they would be the gainers by it. 

M. I agree with you, Elizabeth ; and so I told Isa- 
bella to-day. But she only laughed at me for my '-mor- 
alizing," as she called it, and said, that she held to the 
old saying, that one might as well be out of the world 
as out of the fashion. And, for her part, she should not 
go to meeting unless, she could look as she wanted to. 
The poor girl really seemed to think that her dress would 
be regarded as much as the famous spots which were 
once thought to appear on the sun. 

E. Well, Mary, such persons are more to be pitied 
than condemned; for they certainly have the worst of 
it ; and at the same time they are thinking of enjoying 
themselves, they are mere slaves. Yes, slaves, I say, 
and under a cruel master, too. For fashion is a master 
which I should not wish to follow, and one to whose 
tyranny I should not wish to submit. I do not say that 
I wish to be entirely different from other people, but I 



120 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

choose to be independent, and conform to fashion just so 
far as may suit my feelings and convenience. 

M. Well, well, coz, you have struck my mind ex- 
actly. I do not wish, as you say, to be a slave in any 
sense whatever. I do love independence, and I like to 
see people conform to fashion just so far as their own 
feelings and circumstances will allow. But to see peo- 
ple stay from the house of God, and neglect his worship, 
because they cannot appear in the style of a modern 
belle, is carrying fashion quite far. 

E. Well, cousin, now we have both of us spoken of 
our love for independence ; and suppose that we start 
the plan of getting up, among our young friends, an anti- 
fashion society. Not to prohibit a consistent attention 
to fashion, but to pledge ourselves not to become slaves 
to fashion, and particularly that we will not, on account 
of dress, absent ourselves from church or the Sabbath 
school. What say you to this, Mary? 

M. I approve the plan, most surely, and I recom- 
mend that we propose Isabella Morton for president of 
our society. That would be a fine way to enlist her 
influence in our favor ; and I am sure she would be well 
qualified to give us a lecture, now and then, upon the 
subject. 

E. That is well thought of; and since my conversa- 
tion with you has so much brought me to my natural 
feelings, I will give myself to the work of drawing up a 
sort of constitution, and a set of resolutions, and I doubt 
not we shall obtain to our list a very respectable num- 
ber of names. I am willing that my name should head 
the paper, and I presume you will consent to let yours 
follow? 

M. O, yes; anything to promote good. I am willing 
to add my name, and use my influence to obtain more. 
And we will call together on Isabella, and we shall, no 
doubt, form a strong trio, who will be able, by the bless- 
ing of heaven, to carry forward a good enterprise. 

E. Well, cousin, we have really worked ourselves 
into considerable business. And now, as I feel quite in 
the mood of singing, — and we usually enjoy a little bit 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 121 

of that pleasure when together, — let us close our even- 
ing's confab in this pleasant way. 

Tune — Auld Lang Syne. 

How pleasant 't is for friends to meet, 

And join in social talk ; 
And in the road to happiness 

In peace together walk. 

As sweet as Hermon's dews distil, 

So friendship's sacred voice 
Lights up the mind of kindred hearts, 

And makes the soul rejoice. 

In friendship's sacred voice, may we 

Be bound in union sweet, 
And in that love which heaven approves, 

Each other's faces greet. 

And when our friendship here on earth 

Shall end, O may we rise, 
In holier friendship, then, to join 

With God above the skies. 



DIALOGUE LI. 
THE MAGIC LAMP. 

Sarah. I wish I could be as happy as Jane Seymour 
always is ! 

Harriet. Well, you might be, if you could get the 
charm which she carries with her. 

S. And pray do you believe in charms ? 

H. Yes, in such charms as she has ; for it is the gift 
of no wizard or witch. 

S. Well, do tell me what the charm is, and where 
she got it? 

H. O, she did n't go a great way for it, though she 
had to labor hard. 

S. Labor hard for it 1 Why, I thought charms came 
to persons, like fairy gifts, and not that they had to work 
for them. 

11 



122 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

H. No ; if you will look again into your fairy books, 
you will find that those lucky beings which obtained 
fairy favors wrought a good while before they obtained 
the gifts. 

& Well, I do remember some stories, where some 
poor little girls worked hard for their parents, and were 
real good, and then received from the fairies some 
strange charm to keep them ever happy. 

H. I guess the charm was not very strange; but like 
Jane Seymour's magic lamp. 

S. Magic lamp ! Is that her charm of happiness? 

H. It is. 

S. Pray, what is it ? 

H. Why, it is a magic lamp, that no wind can blow 
out, and no damp can make burn less brightly. It is 
always beautiful, and as pleasant as the sunshine. 

S. Well, that is singular, indeed ; for the lamp must 
have magic in it, if no wind can blow it out, no damp 
can make it dim. 

H. Then it surely is a magic lamp; but you can get 
it if you will work hard enough. 

S. I am sure I am willing to work for it ; for would n't 
it be funny enough to carry it to school, and let the 
scholars see it burn brightly in the old well ? They 'd 
think I was a witch. 

H. Well, if you had it, you would have much witch- 
ery over others. 

& Do tell me, then, what is this magic lamp? 

H. Why, it is nothing more nor less than good tem- 
per. 

S. O dear me ! I guess that charm is n't to be got 
without working for it: and a beautiful lamp it cer- 
tainly is. 

H. Yes ; and it will well pay for any effort made in 
obtaining it; for what can dampen the cheerful spirits, 
or put out the happy light, of a good temper ? 

S. Nothing! nothing! and that is the reason, after 
all, why Jane is always so pleasant ; come what will, 
she is never cross: and you know, when she is coming, 
we always say, "Here comes sunshine." 

H. Yes ; and would it not be well for those who envy 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 123 

her her happiness, to seek more to make their disposi- 
tions like hers? 

S. I think so ; and let ns all strive thus to get the 
magic lamp. 



DIALOGUE LII. 
STORY READING. 

Mary. What book have you there, Julia ? You seem 
deeply interested in it. 

Julia. Is it you, Mary ? I did not observe you, I was 
so deeply engaged in reading this little book. It is 
" Ellen Clifford, or the Genius of Reform," and it is so 
good that I can hardly lay it aside until I have read it 
through. 

Mary. Oh ! a book from the Sunday school library ! 
I have read it. 

Julia. Is it not a good one 1 

Mary. Yes, it is indeed ; and I love to read stories, 
above all things; don't you, Julia? 

Julia. Yes ; but my teacher says that we must not 
read a book for the story alone. She says that all sto- 
ries are to teach us some useful lesson; that every story 
has a moral to it, which we ought to regard, and from 
which we should try to profit. 

Mary. Well, I suppose we may learn many useful 
lessons from the stories we read. From the story of 
Ellen Clifford we may learn that women, and even little 
girls, can do good, and aid in making men better and 
happier, if they will. 

Julia. Yes ; and Clara says that it shows that love 
and gentle treatment will do more than anything else in 
making people forsake their evil ways, and that we 
should persevere, and never give up till we have accom- 
plished our object. 

Mary. Yes, I suppose it is so, and that if Ellen Clif- 
ford had been cross paid ill-natured to her father, and 
had left him to go on in his evil ways, he would have 
died in the alms-house, or have come to some worse 
end. 



124 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Julia. Yes ; and then people would not have loved 
her so, and have been so ready to help and encourage her. 

Mary. No, indeed, they would not ; and I see now 
that we may, if we will, learn many useful lessons from 
the books which we read. 

Julia. I think it is a very pleasant way of learning 
things, too. 

Mary. It surely is, and particularly when a story is 
as interesting, and has as good a moral as that of Ellen 
Clifford has. 



DIALOGUE LIH. 
ALL FOR GOOD ORDER. 

characters. 

Schoolmaster, Esq.. Snyder, 

Isaac, (a school-boy,) Jonas, (his son,) 

Mr. Fosdick, Saunders, (drunken,) 

Bill, (his son,) Jaeez, (his son,) 

Mrs. O'Clary, (Irish,) Some half dozen school-boys. 
Patrick, (her son,) 

Master. {Setting copies, alone.) Well, so here I am 
again, after another night's sleep. But, sleep or no sleep, 
I feel about as much fatigued in the morning as I do at 
night. It is impossible to get the cares and anxieties of 
my profession out of my mind. It does seem to me that 
the parents of some of my pupils are very unfeeling: — 
for I know I have done my very best to keep a good 
school, — and however I may have failed in some in- 
stances, I have the satisfaction of feeling, in my con- 
science, that my best endeavors have been devoted to 
my work. — A merry lot of copies here, to be set before 
school-time. (Lookbig at his watch.) But "a diligent 
hand will accomplish much;" — by the way, that will 
will do for a copy for Jonas Snyder — little culprit ! he 
was very idle yesterday. — {Thinking and busy.) — What 
can that story mean, which Mr. Truetell told me this 
morning? Five or six ! — who could they be? — five or 
six of the parents of my scholars dreadfully offended ! 
Let me see; what have I done? Nothing, very lately, 
that I recollect. Let's see; — yesterday? no, there was 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 125 

nothing yesterday, except that I detained the class in 
geography till they got their lessons. Oh, yes ; Jonas 
Snyder was punished for idleness. Bat I spoke to him 
four or five times, and he would do nothing but whisper, 
and whittle his bench ; and when at last he half eat up 
an apple, and threw the rest at Jacob Readslow, I thought 
he deserved it. Let's see: I gave him six claps — three 
on each hand: — well, he did not get more than his de- 
serts. — {Enter one of the scholars, with his books under 
his arm. walking shirty, and eyeing the master, to his 
seat. Master, still busy, and thinking, by and by says :) 
— Isaac, you may come to me. 

{He walks along, and says :) Sir ! 

Master. Do you remember (placing* his pen over his 
car, and turning earnestly and portentously round) 
whether I punished any scholars yesterday? 

Isaac. Yes, sir : you ferruled Jone Snyder, for playing 
md laughing. 

Master. Did I punish any one else? 

Isaac. Not as 1 recollect. 

Master. Think. Isaac: think carefully. 

Isaac. You kept a lot of us after school, for not say- 
ing our lessons 

Master. {Quickly.) You mean, Isaac, rather, I kept 
you to get your lessons, which you had neglected ? 

Isaac. Yes, sir: and you made Patrick ; Clary stop 
and sweep, because he stayed out too late after recess. 

Master. Oh, yes! I remember that. 

Isaac. He was as mad as a hop about it: he said he 
meant to tell his mother that you made him sweep for 
nothing. 

Master. Hush! hush! You should n't tell tales! 
Do you remember any other punishments? 

Isaac. No, sir ; not yesterday. You hit Jabe Saun- 
ders a clip across the knuckles, with the cowskin, day 
before yesterday: — don't you remember? — just as he 
stretched out his hand to hook that old rag upon Tom 
Willis' collar, you came along behind him, and clip went 
the old whip, right across his fingers, and down went 
the old rag. There, I never was more glad to see any- 
thing in my life ! Little dirty, mean fellow ! — he 's 
11* 



126 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

always sticking things upon fellows; — I saw him once 
pin an old dirty rag upon a man's coat, just as he was 
putting a letter into the post-office; — I never saw such 
a fellow ! 

(The other boys coming in gradually, the master 
rings his little bell, and says :) Boys, come to order, and 
take your books. Now, boys, I wish to see if we can't 
have a good school to-day. Let's see; are we all here? 

Boys. No sir ! No sir ! 

Master. Who is absent? 

Boys. Jone Snyder ! Jabe Saunders ! Patrick O'Cla- 
ry ! and 

Master. Speak one at a time, my boys. Don't make 
confusion, to begin with: — and, {looking around them,) 
— oh ! Bill Fosdick, — only four ! 

One of the boys. Pat O" Clary is late. I saw him 
down in Baker-street, poking along! — he always comes 
late 

Master. Did he say he was coming? 

Same boy. I asked him if he was coming to school, 
and he shook his head, and muttered out something 
about his mother, and 1 ran along and left him. 

Master. Well, boys; now let us try to have a still 
school and close study to-day, and see if it is not more 
pleasant to learn than to play. {Rises and walks to and 
fro on the stage.') Take the geography lesson, James 
and Samuel, first thing this morning; and Isaac, I don't 
wish to detain you again to-day. (Loud knock at the 
door.) 

(Enter Bill Fosdick, walking importantly and conse- 
quentially up to the master and says ;) Here ! father 
wants to see you at the door ! 

(Master turns to go to the door, followed by Bill, %vho 
ivishes to hear all that 's said, and Mr. Fosdick, looking 
quite savage, steps right inside, — the master politely 
bowing, with a " good-morning^) 

Fosdick. Here, sir; I want to see you about my boy ! 
I don't like to have you keep him after school every 
day; I want him at home, — and I should like to have 
you dismiss him when school is done. If he wants 
licking lick him — that's all; but don't you keep him 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 1^7 

here an hour or two every day after school, — I don't 
send him here for that ! 

Master. But, my good sir, I have not often detained 
him ; not more than twice within a fort 

Fos. Well, don't you do it again, — that's all ! 

Master. But, sir, I have only detained him to learn 
the lessons which he might learn in school ; and surely, 
if 

Fos. Well, well, sir ! don't you do it again! — that's 
all I have to say ! If he hehaves bad, you lick him, — 
only do it in reason: — but when school is done, I want 
him dismissed ! 

Master. Sir, I do what I conceive to be my duty; 
and I serve all my scholars alike: and while I would 
be willing to accommodate you, I shall do what I think 
is my duty. {Gathering spirit and gravity, and ad- 
vancing.') Sir, do I understand you wish me to whip 
your son for not getting his lesson? 

Fos. Yes — no — yes — in reason; I don't want my 
children's bones broke! 

Master. (Taking from the desk a cowhide.) Do you 
prefer your son should be whipped to being. detained? 

Fos. I don't think not getting his lessons is such a 
dreadful crime. I never used to get my lessons, and 
old Master Peppermint never used to lick me, and I 
am sure he never kept me after school • but we used to 

have schools good for sumfin in them days. Bill go to 

your seat, and behave yourself! and when school is 
done, you come home ! That 's all I have to say ! 

Master. But stop, my boy ! (Speaking to BUI de- 
cidedly.) There happen to be two sides to this ques- 
tion ! There is something further to be said, before you 
go to your seat in this school. 

Fos. What ! you don't mean to turn him out of 
school, du ye? (Somebody knocks.) 

(A boy steps to the door, and in steps Mrs. O' Clary, 
who, approaching Fosdick, says:) Is it you that's the 
schoolmaster, sure? It's I that's after spaking to the 
schoolmaster. ( Curtseying. ) 

Fos. No; I'm no schoolmaster. 

Master. What is your wish, madam ? 



128 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Mrs. O' Clary. I wants to spake with the schoolmas- 
ter, I do, sir. (Curtseys.) 

Master. Well, madam, (rapping to keep the boys 
still, who are disposed to laugh,) I am the schoolmaster. 
What is your wish? 

Mrs. O' C. Why, sir, my little spalpeen of a son goes 
to this school, he does; and he says he 's made to swape 
every day, he is; and it's all for nothing, he tills me; 
and sure I don't like it, I don't; and I'm kim to com- 
plain to ye, I have! It's Patrick O'Clary that I'm 
spaking of; and it's I that's his mither, I be; and his 
poor father was Paddy O'Clary from Cork, it was — rest 
his sowl ! 

Master. Well, madam, he has never swept but once, 
I believe ; and that, surely, was not without a good rea- 
son. 

Mrs. OC. But himself tills a different story, he does; 
and I niver knew him till but one lie, in my life, I did n't; 
and that was as good as none. But the little spalpeen 
shall be after tilling his own stowry, he shall ! for it's 
he that's waiting in the entrv, and will till ye no lie, at 
all, at all,— upon that ye may depind ! though it's his 
mither that says it, and sure !— (Calls.) —Patrick ! 
Patrick ! ! Patrick i ! ! My dear, here's your mither wants 
ye to come in, and till Master how it 's you that 's kept 
to swape ivry day, and it 's all for nothing, it is ! Come 
in I say in a jiffy • (Patrick, scratching his head, en- 
ters.) Here 's your mither, dear ! now till your master, 

and till the truth, — didn't ye till your mither that ye 

had to swape ivry day for nothing; and it's you that 's 
o-oing to be kept swaping ivry day, for a month to come, 
and sure I 

Master. Now tell the truth, Patrick. 

Patrick. (Looking at his mother.) No ; I niver said 
no such words, and sure ! I said how I 's kept to swape 
yisterday, for staying out too late; and that's all I said 
'bout it, at all, at all ! 

Mrs. O' C. " Cush la macree !" Little sonny, how you 
talk! He's frightened, he is, and sure! (Turning to 
Fosdick.) He 's always bashful before company, he is. 
But, Master, it's I that don't like to have him made to 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 12V* 

swape the school, indade; and if yon can do nothing 
else, I shall be in sad taking, I shall, and sure ! If you 
should be after bating him, I should make no complaint; 
for I bates him myself, whiniver he lies .to his mither — 
a little spalpeen that he is! But I can't bear to have 
him made to do the humbling work of swaping, at all, at 
all; and it's I that shall make a '-dish ma claver," an' 
it's not stopped — indade I shall! (Somebody knocks.) 

{Isaac steps to the door. and. returning, says:) Esq. 
Snyder wishes to see you, sir. 

Master. (Smiling.) Well, ask Mr. Snyder to step in; 
— we may as well have a regular court of it ! 

(Isaac rvaits upon him. i/i, leading Jonas, with his 
hands poulticed.') 

Master. (Smiling.) Good-morning, Mr. Snyder; — 
walk in, sir ! 

Mr. Snyder. (Rather gentlemanly.) I hope you will 
excuse my interrupting your school; but I called to 
inquire what Jonas, here, could have done, that you 
bruised him up at such a rate. Poor little fellow ! he 
came home, taking on as if his heart would break ! and 
both his hands swelled up bigger than mine ! and he 
said you had been beating him, for nothing !' I thought 
I'd come up and inquire into it; for I don't hold to this 
banging and abusing children, and especially when they 
haven't done anything: though I 'ma friend to good 
order. 

Master. I was not aware that I punished him very 
severely, sir. 

Mr. Snyder. Oh ! it was dreadfully severe ! Why, 
the poor little fellow's hands pained him so, that his 
mother had to poultice them, and sit up with him all 
night ! and this morning she wanted to come up to 
school with him herself; but I told her 1 guessed she 
better let me come. — Jonas, do your hands ache now, 
dear? 

Jonas. (Holding them both out together.) Oh ! dread- 
fully ! They feel as if they were in the tire ! 

Mr. Snyder. Well, dear, keep composed ; don't cry, 
dear. — Now, sir, (addressing the master^) this was all 
for nothing ! 



130 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Master. No, sir! It was for something, I am think- 
ing! 

Jonas. I say I did not. do nothing! so there, now! 
(Somebody knocks.) 

Master. Gentlemen, sit down. (Looking perplexed.*) 
Sit down, madam. Give me a little time, and I '11 en- 
deavor to set the matter right. (All sitting down but the 
boys.) 

Mr. Snyder. Why, I don't wish to make a serious, 
matter of it. I shan't prosecute you. I was only 
going to ask if you could n't devise some other kind of 
punishment than pommelling. If you'd made him stop 
after school, or set him to sweeping the house, or scour- 
ing the benches, or even whipped him with a cowhide 
or switch-stick, I should not have complained ; but I 
don't like this beating boys ! (Knocking again.) 

Master. Isaac, go and see who is at the door. 

(Isaac goes, and in stalks Saunders, and his son Ja- 
bez.) 

Saunders. (Bowing and flourishing.) Here ! hallo ! 
Here, I say, Mr. Schoolmaster ! settle up the score as 
ye goes along ! I say, (snatching a cowhide,) you have 
been horsewhipping my boy here, ha'nt you? — By the 
fifteen gallon law ! you don't come that game over the 
son of Nehemiah Saunders, you see ! you pale-faced, 

good-for-nothing ! but pardon me, Master; I ax your 

pardon; for "Miah Saunders, always was, and always 
will be, a gentleman! — Ye see. — don't ye see? — (hic- 
coughing — lifts off the hat,) — ye see — I'll tell ye what, 
Master! — If I'd only known it yesterday, ye see, I'd 
a been here and — but — ye sec — yesterday — I was very 
particularly engaged; — but now, (approaching, and 
switching the cow I hide,) ye see, we'll know who's the 
strongest ! I : 11 give you 

Mrs. O'C. (Screeching.) La! what shall I do? If 
there's a going to be lighting, by St. Patrick, I shall go 
into hysterics ! — Oh dear ! dear ! ! dear ! ! ! 

Master. Oh ! don't be frightened, madam. 

Saunders. (Looking at the woman.) Oh! ha! ha! 
Why, Cathleen O'Clary — ye see — why, have you left 
your wash-tub to go to school? Why, bless my heart! 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 131 

Why, ye see, bless me! — the master here will have a 
most tractable pupil in you. Cathleen ! Why, my stars! 
ye see — and here is neighbor Fosdick ! why, how de 
du. neighbor Fosdick? (BoiDing very loio to Snyder.) 
How do you do, Esq. Snyder? Why, I hope I ha'nt 
been disturbing a court, nor nothing ! (Rubbing his 
head, fyc.) The truth is, I felt dreadfully provoked, 
when I heard that Master here had been whipping my son 
with a raw-hide, like a horse; and says I. I don't sleep 
till I have whipped him. — and all for nothing, too! — 
I've nothing against licking, Mr. Schoolmaster, if you 
use the right kind of licking. Ferule a boy, or give 
him a stick, till he cries :; Enough !" but none of your 
horse-whipping, I say! — ye see— I can't stand that! 
{During this speech. Jabe archly hangs an old rag upon 
his fathers coat, and steps back, and laughs at it.) 

Mr. Fosdick. ( Who saw it.) Mr. Saunders, what is 
that you 've got upon your coat ? (Examining.) 

Saunders. On my coat? — where? (Looks, and after 
a while finds it, and says, in awful rage :) Who did 
that? 

Fos. It was your hopeful son. there. 

Saunders. You little villain of a scamp ! ' (Attempt- 
ing to hit him with the whip, but sta ggering, fails.) I '11 
whip the hide all off of you, I will ! Master, he 's in 
your house ; order him to me, and I '11 show you how to 
use the cowhide ! 

Master. Be calm, sir; becalm. Will you be good 
enough to sit down? You are a gentleman, you say; 
then oblige me by sitting down between these two gen- 
tlemen. 

Saunders. That I will. I'll oblige any gentleman. 
(After many attempts, gets to the seat.) 

Master. And now, gentlemen, and [bowing] madam, 
I think we may each of us begin to see the beauty of 
variety, especially in the matter of opinion. That you 
may all understand the whole case. I will state, in a few 
words, the facts, as they actually occurred. Day before 
yesterday, our young friend Jabez [pointing to him] was 
playing his favorite trick of hanging his rag signal upon 
a school-mate, after the fashion in which he has here so 



132 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

filially served his father, within a few minutes; and 
standing near him at the time, with my whip in hand, I 
could not resist the temptation to salute his mischievous 
knuckles with a well-directed stroke, which, however 
effectually it may have cut his own fingers and his 
father's sensibilities, it seems has not cut off his ruling 
propensity. Yesterday was emphatically a day of sin- 
ning on my part. Jonas Snyder, whose little hands 
have swelled to such enormous magnitude, for constant 
idleness was often reproved ; and after all this, when he 
threw a portion of an apple at a more industrious boy, 
thus disturbing many of those well-disposed boys, he was 
called and feruled, receiving six strokes — three on each 
hand — with the rule I now show you. Little Patrick 
O' Clary was required to sweep the school-room floor, for 
a strong instance of tardiness at recess ; and this punish- 
ment was given, because I did not wish to inflict a se- 
verer one upon so small a lad. And last, this little fellow 
[pointing to Bill Fosdick] was detained, in common 
with seven others, to learn a lesson which he neglected 
to learn at the proper time. 

Such are the facts. And yet each of you has assured 
me that I have incurred your displeasure by using a pun- 
ishment you disapprove, and "all for nothing." You have 
each one taken the trouble to come to this room, to ren- 
der my task— already sufficiently perplexing— still more 
so, by giving parental support to childish complaints, 
and imparting your censure, in no measured terms, upon 
the instructor of your children. But this is a most in- 
teresting case. You all happen to be here together, and 
you thus give me the opportunity I have long wished, to 
show you your own inconsistencies. 

It is easy to complain of your teacher ; but perhaps 
either of you, in your wisdom, would find it not quite so 
easy to take my place and escape censure. How would 
either of you have got along in the present instance? 
Mr. Fosdick, who is displeased with detention after 
school, would have, according to his own recommenda- 
tion, resorted to "licking," either with ferule or whip. 
In this case, he would have incurred the censure 
of his friends, Esq. Snyder and Mr. Saunders. The 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 133 

"squire," in turn, would have raised the displeasure of 
both his friends, by resorting to his favorite mode of de- 
taining and cowhiding. Mistress G'Clary would give 
the "spalpeens" a "bating," as she says, after her own 
peculiar fashion, with which the squire and Mr. Saun- 
ders could not have been over-much pleased; — and Mr. 
Saunders — ay, Mr. 'Miah Saunders — if we may judge 
from the exhibition he has just given us, would have 
displeased even himself, by proving to be what he most 
of all things detests — a champion of the cowhide. Bat 
what is a little curious, as it appears, is, that while I 
have not carried out the favorite scheme of either one of 
you,— which, we have already seen, would be objectiona- 
ble to each of the others, — but have adopted a variety of 
punishments, and the very variety which your own col- 
lective suffrage would fix upon, I have got myself equally 
deep into hot water; and the grand question is now, 
what shall I do? If I take the course suggested by you 
collectively, the result is the same. I see no other way 
but to take my own course, performing conscientiously 
my duties, in their time and after their manners, and 
then to demand of you, and all others, the right of being 
sustained! 

Saunders. (Jumping up.) Them is my sentiments, 
exactly! Ye see — I say — ye see — you go ahead, and 
— ye see — whip that little rascal of mine — ye see — just 
as much as you've a mind to — (turning to the squire, 
who is rising.) — and you shall have this whip to do it 
with. (Handing it to the master.) 

Mr. Snyder. Well, gentlemen, my opinion is, that we 
have been tried and condemned by our own testimony, 
and there is no appeal. My judgment approves the mas- 
ter; and hereafter I shall neither hear nor make any more 
complaints. Jonas, (turning to Jonas, ) my son, if the mas- 
ter is willing, you may go home and tell your mother to 
take off those poultices, and then do you come to school 
and do as you are told ; and if I hear of any more of your 
complaints, I will double the dose you may receive at 
school. 

Mrs. O'C. And sure, Master, the wife of Paddy 
O'Clarv is not the woman to resist authority in the new 
12 



134 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

country; and bless your sowl, if you'll make my little 
spalpeen but a good boy, it 's I that will kindly remem- 
ber the favor, though ye make him swape until nixt 
Christmas ! Here, Patrick, down upon the little knees 
of your own, and crave the master's forgiveness; for it's 
not Cathleen O'Clary 

Master. No, madam ; that I shall not allow. I ask 
no one to kneel to me. I shall only require that he cor- 
rect his past faults, and obey me in future. 

Mrs. (J* C. It's an ungrateful child he would be, if 
ever again he should be after troubling so kind a mas- 
ter. St. Patrick bless ye ! ( Taking little Pat by the 
hand, they go out.) 

Fos. { Taking the master by the hand, pleasantly.) 
Sir, I hope I shall profit by this day's lesson. I have only 
to say, that I am perfectly satisfied we are all wrong; 
and that is, perhaps, the best assurance I can give you 
that I think you are right. That's all I have to say. 

Saunders. Right ! right ! neighbor Fosdick. We are 
all — ye see — we are all come out on the wrong side this 
time ; a'nt we, squire 1 I tell ye what, Mr. Schoolmas- 
ter, — 'Miah Saunders never is ashamed to back out 
{suits the action, fyc.) when he's wrong ! I says, I — ye 
see — 'Miah Saunders is all for good order! Whip that 
boy of mine — ye see — as much as you please ! I '11 not 
complain again, — ye see; — whip him — says I — ye see 
— whip him, and I — tell ye — if 'Miah Saunders don't 
back ye up — then, ye see — may I be chosen president of 
— Cold Water Society ! {Exeunt.) 



DIALOGUE LIV. 
SCENE FROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 

(Sir Robert Bramble and Humphrey Bobbins.) 

Sir Robert. I '11 tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins; 
there is not a syllable of sense in all you have been say- 
ing. But I suppose you will maintain there is. 

Humphrey. Yes. 

Sir R. Yes ! is that the way you talk to me, you old 
boor 1 What 's my name 1 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 135 

Hum,. Robert Bramble. 

Sir R. A'nt I a baronet? Sir Robert Bramble, of 
Blackberry Hall, in the county of Kent ? ; T is time you 
should know it, for you have been my clumsy, two-fisted 
valet these thirty years ; can you deny that 1 

Hum. Hem ! 

Sir R. Hem! what do you mean by hem? Open 
that rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly 
voice walk out of it. Why don't you answer my ques- 
tion ? 

Hum. Because, if I contradict you, I shall tell a lie, 
and when I agree with you, you are sure to fall out. 

Sir R. Humphrey Dobbins, I have been so long en- 
deavoring to beat a few brains into your pate, that all 
your hair is tumbled off before my point is carried. 

Hum. What then? Our parson says my head is an 
emblem of both our honors. 

Sir R. Ay ; because honors, like your head, are apt 
to be empty. 

Hum. No ; but if a servant has grown bald under his 
master's nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one 
side, and regard for it on the other. 

Sir R. Why, to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as 
honest as a — pshaw! the parson means to palaver us; 
but to return to my position. I tell you I don't like your 
flat contradiction. 

Hum. Yes, you do. 

Sir R. I tell you I don't. I only love to hear men's 
arguments. I hate their flummery. 

Hum. What do you call flummery? 

Sir R. Flattery, blockhead ! a dish too often served 
up by paltry poor men to paltry rich ones. 

Hum. I never serve it up to you. 

Sir R. No, you give me a dish of a different descrip- 
tion. 

Hum. Hem ! what is it ? 

Sir R. Sour crout, you old crab ! 

Hum. I have held you a stout tug at argument this 
many a year. 

Sir R. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism. 
Now mind : when a poor man assents to what a rich man 



136 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

says, I suspect he means to flatter him : now I am rich, 
and hate flattery. Ergo — when a poor man subscribes 
to my opinion, I hate him. 

Hum. That 's wrong. 

Sir R. Yery well — negatur — now prove it. 

Hum. Put the case, then : — I am a poor man. 

Sir R. You a'nt, you scoundrel ! You know you 
shall never want while I have a shilling. 

Hum. Well, then, I am a poor 1 must be a poor 

man now, or 1 shall never get on. 

Sir R. Well, get on ; be a poor man. 

Hum. I am a poor man, and I argue with you, and 
convince you you are wrong ; then you call yourself a 
blockhead, and I am of your opinion ! — now that's no 
flattery. 

Sir R. Why, no; but when a man's of the same 
opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument, and 
that puts an end to the conversation, and so I hate him 
for that. But where 's my nephew, Frederic? 

Hum. Been out these two hours. 

Sir R. An undutiful cub ! only arrived from Russia 
last night, and though I told him to stay at home till I 
rose, he 's scampering over the fields like a Calmuc 
Tartar. 

Hum. He 's a fine fellow. 

Sir R. He has a touch of our family. Don't you 
think he 's a little like me, Humphrey? 

Hum. No, not a bit ; you are as ugly an old man as 
ever I clapped my eyes on. 

Sir R. Now that 's plaguy impudent ! but there 's no 
flattery in it, and it keeps up the independence of argu- 
ment. His father, my brother Job, is of as tame a spirit 
— Humphrey, you remember my brother Job? 

Hum. Yes, you drove him to Russia, five-and-twenty 
years ago. 

Sir R. I did not drive him. 

Hum. Yes you did. You would never let him be at 
peace in the way of argument. 

Sir R. At peace ! zounds, he would never go to war. 

Hum. He had the merit to be calm. 

Sir R. So has a duck-pond. He received my argu- 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 137 

ments with his mouth open, like a charity box gaping 
for half-pence, and, good or bad, he swallowed them all, 
without any resistance. We couldn't disagree, and so 
we parted. 

Hum. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Rus- 
sia for a quiet life. 

Sir R. A quiet life ! why, he married the moment he 
got there: tacked himself to the shrew relict of a Russian 
merchant, and continued a speculation with her in furs, 
flax, potashes, tallow, linen and leather ! What 's the 
consequence ? — thirteen months ago he broke. 

Hum. Poor soul ! his wife should have followed the 
business for him. 

Sir R. I fancy she did follow it, for she died just as 
he broke; and now this madcap, Frederic, is sent over to 
me for protection. Poor Job ! now he is in distress I 
must not neglect his son. 

Ham. Here comes his son: — that's Mr. Frederic. 

[Enter Frederic.) 

Frederic. Oh, my dear uncle, good-morning! your 
park is nothing but beauty. 

Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty 1 I told 
you to stay in doors till I got up. 

Fred. So you did, but I entirely forgot it. 

Sir R. And pray what made you forget it ? 

Fred. The sun. 

Sir R. The sun? — you're mad! — you mean the 
moon, I believe. 

Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, you don't know the effect 
of a fine spring morning, upon a fellow just arrived from 
Russia. The day looked bright, trees budding, birds 
singing, the park was so gay, that I took a leap out 
of your old balcony, made your deer fly before me like 
the wind, and chased them all around the park, to get 
an appetite for breakfast, while you were snoring in bed, 
uncle. 

Sir R. Oh, oh ! So the effect of English sunshine 
upon a Russian is to make him jump out of a balcony 
and worry my deer. 

Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me. 
12* 



138 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old 
uncle, unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat 
legacy. 

Fred. I hate legacies. 

Sir R. Sir, that 's mighty singular. They are pretty 
solid tokens, at least. 

Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle; they are post- 
humous despatches, affection sends to gratitude, to 
inform us we have lost a gracious friend. 

Sir R. How charmingly the dog argues ! 

Fred. But I own my spirits ran away with me this 
morning. I will obey you better in future; for they tell 
me you are a very worthy, good sort of old gentleman. 

Sir R. Now, who had the familiar impudence to tell 
you that? 

Fred. Old rusty, there. {Pointing to Humphrey?) 

Sir R. Why, Humphrey, you didn't? 

Hum. Yes, but I did though. 

Fred. Yes, he did ; and on that score I shall be anx- 
ious to show you obedience; for 'tis as meritorious to 
attempt sharing a good man's heart, as it is paltry to 
have designs upon a rich man's money. A noble nature 
aims its attentions full breast high, uncle; a mean mind 
levels its dirty assiduities at the pocket. 

Sir R. {Shaking him by the hand.) Jump out of 
every window 1 have in the house ! hunt my deer into 
high fevers, my fine fellow ! Ay, hang it ! this is spunk 
and plain speaking. Give me a man who is always 
plumping his dissent to my doctrines smack in my 
teeth. 

Fred. I disagree with you, there, uncle. 

Hum. So do I. 

Fred. {To Humphrey.) You, you forward puppy? 
If you were not so old, I 'd knock you down. 

Sir R. I'll knock you down if you do. I won't have 
my servants thumped into dumb flattery ; I won't let 
you teach them to make silence a toad-eater ! 

Hum. Come, you're ruffled. Let's goto the busi- 
ness of the morning. 

Sir R. Hang the business of the morning ! Don't 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 139 

you see we are engaged in discussion? I hate the busi- 
ness of the morning ! 

Hum. No, you don't. 

Sir R. Why don't I? 

Hum. Because it 's charity. 

Sir R. Pshaw, hang it ! Well, we must not neglect 
the business; if there be any distresses in the parish: 
read the morning list, Humphrey. 

Hum. [Reading.] Jonathan Haggans, of Muck Mead, 
is put in prison. 

Sir R. Why, it was but last week, Gripe, the attor- 
ney, received two cottages for him by law, worth sixty 
pounds. 

Hum. And charged a hundred and ten for his trouble; 
so seized the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jona- 
than into jail for the remainder. 

Sir R. A harpy ! I must relieve the poor fellow's dis- 
tress. 

Fred. And I must kick his attorney. 

Hum-. The curate's horse is dead. 

Sir R. Pshaw ! there 's no distress in that. 

Hum. Yes, there is, to a man that must go twenty 
miles every Sunday to preach three sermons, for thirty 
pounds a year. 

Sir R. Why won't Punmonk, the vicar, give him 
another nag ? 

Efum. Because 'tis cheaper to get another curate, 
ready mounted. 

Sir R. What 's the name of the black pad I purchased 
last Tuesday, at Tunbridge ? 

Hum. Beelzebub. 

Sir R. Send Beelzebub to the curate, and tell him to 
work him as long as he lives. 

Fred. And if you have a tumble-down tit, send him 
to the vicar, and give him a chance of breaking his 
neck. 

Sir R. What else? 

Hum. Somewhat out of the common ;-— there's one 
Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer, and a wid- 
ower, come to lodge at farmer Harrowby's, in the vil- 



140 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

lage; he's very poor, indeed, it seems; but more proud 
than poor, and more honest than proud. 

Fred. That sounds like a noble character. 

Sir R. And so he sends to me for assistance? 

Hum. He 'd see you hanged first ! Harrowby says, 
he'd sooner die than ask any man for a shilling ! — 
There 's his daughter, and his dead wife's aunt, and an 
old corporal that has served in the wars with him — he 
keeps them all upon half pay. 

Sir R. Starves them all, I am afraid, Humphrey ! 

Fred. [Gobig.] Uncle, good-morning. 

Sir R. Where, you rogue, are you running now ? 

Fred. To talk to Lieutenant Worthington. 

Sir R. And what may you be going to say to him ? 

Fred. I can't tell till I encounter him; and then, 
uncle, when I have an old gentleman by the hand, who 
is disabled in his country's service, and struggling to 
support his motherless child, a poor relation, and a faith- 
ful servant, in honorable indigence, impulse will supply 
me with words to express my sentiments. \Hurrying 
away.] 

Sir R. Stop, you rogue ! I must be before you in this 
business. 

Fred. That depends upon who can run fastest; so 
start fair, uncle, and here goes. [Runs off.] 

Sir R. Stop ! why, Frederic — a jackanapes ! — tp take 
my department out of my hands! I '11 disinherit the dog 
for his assurance ! 

Hum. No, you won't. 

Sir R. Won't I? hang me if I But we'll argue 

that point as we go. Come along, Humphrey. 



DIALOGUE LV. 
FIRST OF APRIL. 



Joseph. Charles, I am heartily tired of the first of 
April, and all its fooleries. 

Charles. Why, what is the matter, Joseph? You 
don't object, I hope, to a little fun. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 141 

Joseph. Yes, Charles, I do object to such fun as I 
have seen to-day. I object to lying. 

Charles. Why, the first of April we 're always allowed 
to fool people, and I don't see as there is any harm in it. 
Everybody does so. 

Joseph. I know that everybody sins against God ; but 
still, sin is wrong, and God will call us to account for it. 
Is it no harm to tell a lie ? Besides, Charles, I can tell 
you things which I have seen to-day, that will convince 
you that I am right. 

Charles. Well, Joseph, I am willing to be convinced, 
if I am wrong. 

Joseph. I saw an old gentleman riding on horseback 
— I should think he was sixty years old — the few hairs 
upon his head were gray. For such men we ought 
always to feel a great reverence. The boys had wrapped 
np some sand in a paper, on the outside of which was 
written " sugar," and put it in the muddiest place in the 
road. 

The old gentleman stopped his horse, and got off in 
the mud, and was about to pick up the bundle, when 
my heart was touched,~and I said to him, " Sir, the boys 
are trying to fool you." Then all the boys shouted 
" April fool !" and one of them wanted to fight with me 
for spoiling their sport; but I refused to do it, and walked 
away. 

Charles. That was really too bad, to make sport of 
such an old gentleman, who had done them no harm. 

Joseph. There was another cruel thing that I saw. 
Some boys had taken pains to heat a horse-shoe very 
hot, and laid it upon a stone by the side of the road. A 
traveller, passing along in a wagon, with his wife, saw 
the shoe, and got out to pick it up ; in doing which, he 
burnt his hand very severely. 

The boys, at the same instant, shouted "April fool !" 
which frightened the horse, so that" he ran away with 
the wagon, and upset it, scattering the traveller's things 
all along the road. The woman, in attempting to jump 
from the wagon, fell upon her face, and was very much 
injured. 



142 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Charles. That was cruel, indeed! How did the boys 
feel? 

Joseph. At first they laughed: when they saw the 
horse running, they trembled : and when the woman 
was hurt, they were afraid, and ran away. I saw many 
other tricks, where no serious damage was done, but 
where a great many lies were told ; and sometimes the 
fool came upon the boys themselves. 

Charles. Yes, I saw one trick of that kind, and a 
pretty good one, too. A little boy, whose mother was 
very poor, was sent with a half-dollar to buy flour. Sev- 
eral of the boys had fooled him, and he thought he would 
have a little sport. 

He stopped at the coppersmith's and got a hole bored 
in the half-dollar, and put a string into it; then, laying 
the piece down before a store, stood behind the door, and 
when any person attempted to pick it up, he twitched it 
in. The string near the money was covered with dust, 
so that it could not be seen. 

He succeeded in fooling a number of people in this 
way. At last, a drunken man came along, who under- 
stood the trick; and, stepping on the string, he broke it, 
and got the money, and told the boy he was an "April 
fool," and spent the money in drinking. 

Joseph. For my part, I am resolved never to play 
"April fool" again; for I think it the worst kind of 
lying. Here we see old age made sport of; human life 
put in danger; a poor widow deprived of her suste- 
nance; and a drunkard furnished with the means of 
getting drunk ; all this, and a great deal more, to gratify 
the sport of children. Now, Charles, who are the great- 
est fools, the boys who tell the lies, or those who are 
deceived by them? 

Charles. Well, Joseph, I am of your opinion. I never 
before knew the evils to be so great. 

Joseph. Let us both, then, set our faces against this 
vile practice. Let us do all we can to put a stop to it. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 143 

DIALOGUE LVI. 
TRUE AND FALSE PHILANTHROPY. 

Mr. Fantom. I despise a narrow field. O for the 
reign of universal benevolence ! I want to make all 
mankind good and happy. 

Mr. Goodman. Dear me ! Sure that must be a 
wholesale sort of a job : had you not better try your 
hand at a town or neighborhood first? 

Mr. F. Sir, I have a plan in my head for relieving 
the miseries of the whole world. Everything is bad as 
it now stands. I would alter all the laws, and put an 
end to all the wars in the world. I would put an end 
to all punishments ; I would not leave a single prisoner 
on the face of the globe. This is what I call doing 
things on a grand scale. 

Mr. G. A scale with a vengeance ! As to releasing 
the prisoners, however, I do not much like that, as it 
would be liberating a few rogues at the expense of all 
honest men ; but as to the rest of your plan, if all coun- 
tries would be so good as to turn Christians, it might be 
helped on a good deal. There would be still misery 
enough left indeed ; because God intended this world 
should be earth, and not heaven. But, sir, among all 
your changes, you must destroy human corruption, 
before you can make the world quite as perfect as you 
pretend. 

Mr. F. Your project would rivet the chains which 
mine is designed to break. 

Mr. G. Sir, I have no projects. Projects are, in gen- 
eral, the offspring of restlessness, vanity, and idleness, 
am too busy for projects, too contented for theories, 
md, I hope, have too much honesty and humility for a 
philosopher. The utmost extent of my ambition, at 
present, is, to redress the wrongs of a poor apprentice, 
who has been cruelly used by his master : indeed, I 
have another little scheme, which is to prosecute a fel- 
low, who has suffered a poor wretch, in the poorhouse, 
of which he had the care, to perish through neglect; and 
you must assist me. 



144 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Mr. F. Let the town do that. You must not apply- 
to me for the redress of such petty grievances. I own 
that the wrongs of the Poles and South Americans so fill 
my mind, as to leave me no time to attend to the petty 
sorrows of poorhouses and apprentices. It is provinces, 
empires, continents, that the benevolence of the philoso- 
pher embraces ; every one can do a little paltry good to 
his next neighbor. 

Mr. G. Every one can, but I do not see that every 
one does. If they would, indeed, your business would 
be ready done to your hands, and your grand ocean of 
benevolence would be filled with the drops which pri- 
vate charity would throw into it. I am glad, however, 
you are such a friend to the prisoners, because I am just 
now getting a little subscription, to set free your poor 
old friend Tom Saunders, a very honest brother me- 
chanic, who first got into debt, and then into jail, through 
no fault of his own, but merely through the pressure of 
the times. A number of us have given a trifle every 
week towards maintaining his young family, since he 
has been in prison; but we think we shall do much 
more service to Saunders, and, indeed, in the end, lighten 
our own expense, by paying down, at once, a little sum, 
to release him, and put him in the way of maintaining 
his family again. We have made up all the money ex- 
cept five dollars. I am already promised four, and you 
have nothing to do but to give me the fifth. And so, 
for a single dollar, without any of the trouble we have 
had in arranging the matter, you will, at. once, have the 
pleasure of helping to save a worthy family from starv- 
ing, of redeeming an old friend from jail, and of putting 
a little of your boasted benevolence into action. Real- 
ize ! Mr. Fantom : there is nothing like realizing. 

Mr. F. Why, hark ye, Mr. Goodman ; do not think I 
value a dollar; — no, sir; I despise money; it is trash, it 
is dirt, and beneath the regard of a wise man. It is one 
of the unfeeling inventions of artificial society. Sir, I 
could talk to you half a day on the abuse of riches, and 
my own contempt of money. 

Mr. G. O, pray do not give yourself that trouble. It 
will be a much easier way of proving your sincerity, 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 145 

just to put your hand in your pocket, and give me a 
dollar, without saying a word about it : and then to you, 
who value time so much, and money so little, it will cut 
the matter short. But come, now, (for I see you will 
give nothing,) I should be mighty glad to know what is 
the sort of good you do yourself, since you always object 
to what is done by others. 

Mr. F. Sir, the object of a true philosopher is, to dif- 
fuse light and knowledge. I wish to see the whole world 
enlightened. 

Mr. G. Well, Mr. Fan torn, you are a wonderful man, 
to keep up such a stock of benevolence, at so small an 
expense ; to love mankind so dearly, and yet avoid all 
opportunities of doing them good ; to have such a noble 
zeal for the millions, and to feel so little compassion for 
the units ; — to long to free empires and enlighten king- 
doms, and deny instruction to your own village and 
comfort to your own family. Surely, none but a philos- 
opher could indulge so much philanthropy and so much 
frugality at the same time. But come; do assist me in a 
partition I am making in our poorhouse, between the 
old, whom I want to have better fed, and the young, 
whom I want to have more worked. 

Mr. F. Sir, my mind is so engrossed with the parti- 
tion of Poland, that I cannot bring it down to an object 
of such insignificance. I despise the man whose benev- 
olence is swallowed up in the narrow concerns of his 
own family, or village, or country. 

Mr. G. Well, now, I have a notion, that it is as well 
to do one's own duty, as the duty of another man ; and 
that to do good at home, is as well as to do good abroad. 
For my part, I had as lief help Tom Saunders to free- 
dom, as a Pole or a South American, though I should be 
very glad to help them too. But one must begin to love 
somewhere, and to do good somewhere ; and I think it 
is as natural to love one's own family, and to do good in 
one's own neighborhood, as to anybody else. And if 
every man, in every family, village, and county, did the 
same, why then all the schemes would meet, and the 
end of one village or town, where I was doing good, 
* T ould be the beginning of another village, where some- 
13 



146 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

body else was doing good ; so my schemes would jut 
into my neighbor's; his projects would unit with those 
of some other local reformer ; and all would fit with a 
sort of dovetail exactness. 

Mr. F. Sir, a man of large views will be on the watch 
for great occasions to prove his benevolence. 

Mr. G. Yes, sir; but if they are so distant that he 
cannot reach them, or so vast that he cannot grasp them, 
he may let a thousand little, snug, kind, good actions 
slip through his fingers in the mean while : and so, be- 
tween the great things that he cannot do, and the little 
ones that he will not do, life passes, and nothing will be 
done. 



DIALOGUE LVII. 
SCENE BETWEEN CAPTAIN TACKLE AND JACK BOWLIN. 

Jack. Good-day to your honor. 

Captain. Good-day, honest Jack. 

Jack. To-day is my captain's birth-day. 

Copt. I know it. 

Jack. I am heartily glad on the occasion. 

Capt. I know that, too. 

Jack. Yesterday your honor broke your sea-foam 
pipe. 

Capt. Well, sir booby ! and why must I be put in 
mind of it? It was stupid enough, to be sure ; but hark 
ye. Jack ; all men at times do stupid actions, but I never 
met with one who liked to be reminded of them. 

Jack. I meant no harm, your honor. It was only a 
kind of introduction to what I was going to say. I have 
been buying this pipe-head and ebony tube, and if the 
thing is not too bad, and my captain will take such a 
present on his birth-day, for the sake of poor old 
Jack 

Capt. Is that what you would be at? — Come, let's 
see. 

Jack. To be sure, it is not sea-foam ; but my captain 
must think, when he looks at it, that the love of old 
Jack was not mere foam neither. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 147 

Capt. Give it here, my honest fellow. 

Jack. You will take it? 

Capt. To be sure, I will. 

Jack. And will smoke it? 

Capt. That I will. (Feeling in his pocket.} 

Jack. And will not think of giving me anything in 
return ? 

Capt. ( Withdrawing his hand from his pocket.) No. 
no you are right. 

Jack. Huzza ! now let mother Grimkin bake her al- 
mond cakes out of her daily pilferings, and be hanged ! 

Capt. Fie, Jack! what's that you say? 

Jack. The truth. I have just come from the kitchen, 
where she is making a great palaver about "her cake," 
and "her cake," and yet this morning she must be put 
in mind that it was her master's birth-day. Hang me ! 
I have thought of nothing else this month. 

Capt. And because you have a better memory, you 
must blame the poor woman. Shame on you ! 

Jack. Please your honor, she is an old 

Capt. Avast ! 

Jack. Yesterday she made your wine cordial of sour 
beer, — so to-day she makes you an almond cake of 

Capt. Hold your tongue, sir ! 

Jack. A'nt you obliged to beg the necessaries of life, 
as if she were a pope or admiral ? and last year, when 
you were bled, though she had laid up chest upon chest 
full of linen, and all yours, if the truth was known, yet 
no bandage was found till I tore the spare canvass from 
my Sunday shirt to rig your honor's arm. 

Capt. You are a scandalous fellow ! ( Throws the pipe 
back to him.) Away with you and your pipe ! 

Jack. (Looking attentively at his master and the 
pipe.) I am a scandalous fellow ? 

Capt. Yes! 

Jack. Your honor will not have the pipe? 

Capt. No ; I will take nothing from him who would 
raise his own character at the expense of another old 
servant. (Jack takes up the pipe, and throws it old of 
the loindoiv.) What are you doing ? 

Jack. Throwing the pipe out of the window. 



148 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Capt. Are you mad ? 

Jack. Why, what should I do with it? You wih 
not have it, and it is impossible for me to use it, for as 
often as I should puff away the smoke, I should think, 
"Old Jack Bowlin, what a pitiful scamp you must be ! 
a man whom you have served honestly and truly these 
thirty years, and who must know you from stem to 
stern, says you are a scandalous fellow;" and the thought 
would make me weep like a child. But when the pipe 
is gone, I shall try to forget the whole business, and say 
to myself, "My poor old captain is sick, and does not 
mean what he said." 

Capt. Jack, come here. {Takes his hand.) I did 
not mean what I said. 

Jack. {Shakes his hand heartily.) I knew it ; I knew 
it. I have you and your honor at heart, and when I 
see such an old, hypocritical bell-wether cheating you 
out of your hard-earned wages, it makes my blood 
boil 

Capt. Are you at it again ? Shame on you ! You 
have opened your heart to-day, and given me a peep 
into its lowest hold. 

Jack. So much the better ! for you will then see that 
my ballast is love and truth to my master. But hark 
ye, master, it is certainly worth your while to inquire 
into the business. 

Capt. And hark ye, fellow, if I find you have told me 
a lie, I '11 have no mercy on you. I'll turn you out of 
doors, to starve in the street ! 

Jack. No, captain, you won't do that. 

Capt. But I tell you I will, though. I will do it; 
and if you say another word, I '11 do it now ! 

Jack. Well, then away goes Jack to the hospital. 

Capt. What's that you say? Hospital! hospital! 
you rascal ! What will you do there? 

Jack. Die. 

Capt. And so you will go and die in a hospital, will 
you? Why — why — you lubber ! do you think I can't 
take care of you after I have turned you out of doors, 
hey? 

Jack. Yes, I dare say you would be willing to pay 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 149 

my board, and take care that I did not want in my old 
days ; but I would sooner beg, than pick up money so 
thrown at me. 

Capt. Rather beg? — there 's a proud rascal ! 

Jack. He that don't love me, must not give me 
money. 

Capt. Do you hear that ? Is not this enough to give 
a sound man the gout? You sulky fellow ! do you rec- 
ollect twenty years ago, when we fell into the clutches 
of the Algerines ? The pirates stripped me of my last 
jacket; but yon, you lubber ! who was it hid two pieces 
of gold in his hair ? and who was it that, half a year 
afterwards, when we were ransomed, and turned naked 
on the world, shared his money and clothes with me? 
Hey, fellow ! — and now you would die in a hospital ! 

Jack. Nay, but captain 

Capt. And when my ship's crew mutinied, at the 
risk of his life, he disclosed the plot. Have you forgot- 
ten it, you lubber ? 

Jack. Well, and didn't you build my old mother a 
house for it? 

Capt. And when we had boarded the French priva- 
teer, and the captain's hanger hung over my head, didn't 
you strike off the arm that was going to split my skull? 
Have you forgot that, too? Have I built you a house 
for that? Will you die in a hospital, now? — you un- 
grateful dog ! hey ? 

Jack. My good old master ! 

Capt. Would you have it set on my tomb-stone, 
" Here lies an unthankful hound, who let his preserver 
and mess-mate die in a hospital," would you? Tell 
me, this minute, you will live and die by me, you lub- 
ber ! Come here, and give me your hand. 

Jack. (Going towards him.) My noble, noble master! 

Capt. Avast! Stand off! take care of my lame leg! 
yet I had rather you should hurt that than my heart, 
my old boy. (Shakes his hand heartily.) Now go and 
bring me the pipe. Stop ! let me lean on you, and I will 
go down and get it myself, and use it on my birth-day. 
You would die in a hospital, would you? you unfeeling 
lubber ! 

13* 



150 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



DIALOGUE LVII1. 
PRINCE HENRY AND FALSTAFF. 

Prince Henry. Welcome, Jack ! Where hast thou 
been? 

Falstaff. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a ven- 
geance too, marry and amen ! Give me a cup of sack, 
boy: — ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether socks and 
mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cow- 
ards ! give me a cup of sack, rogue ! Is there no virtue 
extant? [He drinks.} You rogue ! here's lime in this 
sack, too. There's nothing but roguery to be found in 
villanous man ; yet a coward is worse than a cup of 
sack with lime in it. A villanous coward ! — Go thy 
ways, old Jack ! die when thou wilt ; if manhood, good 
manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then 
am I a shotten herring ! There live not three good men 
unhanged in England, and one of them is fat and grows 
old, — Heaven help the while ! A bad world ! I say. — 
A plague of all cowards ! I say, still. 

P. Henry. How now, Woolsack ! what mutter you 1 

Pal. A king's son ! if I do not beat thee out of thy 
kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy sub- 
jects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I '11 never wear 
hair on my face more ! You Prince of Wales ! 

P. Henry. Why, what's the matter? 

Fal. Are you not a coward ? Answer me that ! 

P. Henry. An' ye call me coward, I '11 stab thee ! 

Fal. I call thee coward ! I '11 see thee hanged ere I '11 
call thee coward ; but I would give a thousand pound I 
could run as fast as thou canst. You 're straight enough 
in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back. 
Call you that backing of friends ? A plague upon such 
backing! Give me them that will face me! — Give me 
a cup of sack ! I am a rogue if I 've drank to-day ! 

P. Henry. O, villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped since 
thou drankest last ! 

Fal. All 's one for that. [He drinks.] A plague of 
all cowards ! still, say I. 

P. Henry. What's the matter? 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 151 

Fal. What ? s the matter ! Here be four of us have 
ta'en a thousand pound this morning. 

P. Henry. Where is it, Jack ? Where is it? 

Fal. Where is it ! Taken from us, it is : a hundred 
upon four of us. 

P. Henry. What! a hundred, man? 

Fal. I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a 
dozen of them two hours together ! 1 have escaped by 
miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, 
four through the hose, my buckler cut through and 
through, my sword hacked like a handsaw! — I never 
dealt better since I was a man : all would not do. A 
plague of all cowards ! 

P. Henry. What, fought you with them all? 

Fal. All ! I know not what ye call all ; but if I fought 
not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish ! if there 
were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then 
I am no two-legged creature ! 

P. Henry. Pray Heaven, you have not murdered 
some of them ! 

Fal. Nay, .that 's past praying for ! I have peppered 
two of them; two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues 
in buckram suits ! I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a 
lie, spit in my face ! call me a horse ! Thou knowest 
my old ward : here I lay, and thus I bore my point ; four 
rogues in buckram let drive at me ! 

P. Henry. What ! four? Thou saidst but two, even 
now. 

Fal. Four, Hal; I told thee four; — these four came 
all afront, and mainly thrust at me : I made no more 
ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus. 

P. Henry. Seven ! why, they were but four, even 
now. 

Fal. In buckram ? 

P. Henry. Ay, four, in buckram suits. 

Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else ! 
Dost thou hear me, Hal? 

P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee, too, Jack. 

Fal. Do so ; for it is worth the listening to. These 
nine in buckram that I told thee of 

P. Henry. So, two more already? 



152 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Fal. Their points being broken, began to give me 
ground ; but I followed me close, came in foot and hand, 
and, with a thought, — seven of the eleven I paid. 

P. Henry. O, monstrous ! eleven buckram men grown 
out of two ! 

Fal. But as Satan would have it, three misbegotten 
knaves, in Kendal-green, came at my back, and let drive 
at me ; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see 
thy hand ! 

P. Henry. These lies are like the father that begets 
them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable! Why, thou 
clay-brained heap ! thou knotty-pated fool 

Fal. What! art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the 
truth the truth ? 

P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these men 
in Kendal-green, when it was so dark thou couldst not 
see thy hand ? Come, tell us your reason : what sayest 
thou to this? Come, your reason, Jack, — your reason. 

Fal. What! upon compulsion? — No: were I at the 
strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell 
you on compulsion ! Give you a reason on compulsion ! 
[f reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give 
no man a reason upon compulsion! 

P. Henry. I '11 be no longer guilty of this sin. This 
sanguine coward ! this horse-back-breaker ! this huge 
hill of flesh 

Fal. Away, you starveling ! you elf-skin ! you dry'd 
neat's tongue ! you stock-fish ! O, for breath to utter ! 
what is like thee ? 

P. Henry. Well, breathe a while, and then to't 
again ; and when thou hast tired thyself in base com- 
parisons, hear me speak but this: — Poins and I saw 
you four set on four ; you bound them, and were mas- 
ters of their wealth : mark now, how a plain tale shall 
put you down ! Then did we two set on you four, and 
with a word outfaced you from your prize, and have it ; 
yea, and can show it you here in the house. And, Fal- 
start, you carried yourself away as nimbly, with as quick 
dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, 
as ever I heard a calf. What a slave art thou ! to hack 
thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 153 

fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole 
canst thou now find. out. to hide thee from this open and 
apparent shame? 

Fal. Ha! ha! ha! — D'ye think I did not know 
yoii ? I knew you as well as he that made you. Why, 
hear ye, my master ; was it for me to kill the heir-ap- 
parent? should I turn upon the true prince? Why, 
thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware 
instinct ! the lion will not touch the true prince ! instinct 
is a great matter. I was a coward on instinct, I grant 
you : and I shall think the better of myself and thee 
during my life ; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true 
prince. But I am glad you have the money. Let us 
clap to the doors ; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. 
What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extem- 
pore ? 

P. Henry. Content ! — and the argument shall be, thy 
running away. 

Fal. Ah ! no more of that, Hal, an' thou lovest me. 



DIALOGUE LIX. 
LEARNING TO WRITE. 

Edward. Ah, John ! is that you ? How do you do ? 

John. Pretty well, I thank you. Where are you 
going, all so fast? 

E. I am going to the writing-school. 

J. Writing-school! what's that? Any fun going on 
there? 

E. I don't think there is anything very funny about 
it, for I am learning to write. 

J. What do they give you a day ? 

E. Give me? nothing, to be sure! Why, don't you 
know that the teacher must be paid, as in other schools? 

J. Well the old proverb is, "A fool and his money 
are soon parted," and I should like to know what you 
want to spend yours in that way for ? 

E. I always think it money well spent, when by it I 
learn anything ; and I guess you would think I had im- 



154 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

proved considerably in my writing, if you could see my 
book ! 

J. Well, I '11 tell you what it is : I can't get as much 
money as I want to spend in other ways, without throw- 
ing it away in a writing- school. I have earned consid- 
erable this season, doing little jobs for folks, such as car- 
rying billets, and wedding-cards, and many other things, 
too numerous to mention; — good business that, by the 
way, in our days, — yet, somehow or other, I can't save 
a single cent. 

E. Why, what do you do with it all ? 

J. O, I buy candy and sugar-plums ; and then 1 go 
to the Museum very often. There you can see all sorts 
of curiosities; and then, there are concerts — the Ethio- 
pian Serenaders, and Virginia, Guinea, Congo, and Dia- 
mond Minstrels, and lots of families besides, — such as 
the Hutchinson, the Baker, and Rainer families; — but 
I like the minstrels better than the families, because thev 
are so funny. 

E. I should think they were black, by the names. 

J. Oh, no ; they are only blacked up to look like nig- 
gers. The " gemmen ob color" are in better business; 
— but that makes it all the funnier. They have all 
kinds of queer instruments, and sing the queerest songs 
you ever heard. 

E. I suppose you have a very intellectual entertain- 
ment; don't you? 

J. Oh, yes ; real ! "It will never do to give it up so, 
Mr. Brown," — that 's one. And there 's " My old massa 
told me, oh ; " and "Oh, poor Lucy Neal," 

" And if I had her by my side, 
How happy I should feel ! " 

That 's all I can remember of that. But I should like to 
know what good the writing-school is going to do you ? 
E. Why, I will tell you. You know, one of these 
days, when I grow up to be a man, I shall want to go 
into business ; and then I shall have to write letters, and 
a great many other things, and I shall want to write 
plain, too, so that other people can read it. It would be 
dreadfully mortifying to me, if I should happen to be 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 155 

situated as a would-be eminent merchant was once, who 
wrote so badly, that after it got cold, neither he, his 
clerk, nor anybody else, could read it. 

/. Well, I don't expect to go into business; if I do, I 
shall keep a clerk. All that I shall have to do will be to 
sign my name, John Smith, his -|- mark. — so. (Mak- 
ing a cross on paper.) 

E. But suppose you should want to write a letter to 
a lady; how would your cross answer then ] I knew a 
young man. who, having occasion to carry on a corre- 
spondence with a lady, was so ashamed of his own 
handwriting, that he got another young man to write his 
letters for him. It so happened that this young man 
had a correspondence with an intimate friend of the lady 
at the same time, and the ladies found out that it was 
all the same handwriting. Neither of the young men 
would own that he couldn't write; so the ladies gave 
them the " mitten," and concluded to wait for somebody 
else, who could both write and tell the truth. Now, if 
you and I should ever be so unfortunate as not to be 
able to write well, it will be rather bad business. 

J. Well, I don't expect to write letters to the ladies 
yet a while. When I do, it will be time enough to worry 
about it. Neither do I expect to go into a store. To 
keep an oyster-cellar is the height, or, rather, the depth 
of my ambition. Plenty of oysters to eat, and plenty of 
money to spend: for people that can't read or write can 
eat oysters and spend money. Then, when I want a 
little fun, there are always plenty of " minstrels," and 
"Albinos," and "Tom Thumbs," and "giants," and 
the "circuses," and "caravans." Then I like ice- 
creams, and candy, and all the "fixens" of the day. 
That 's the way to spend money ! " A short life and a 
merry one," is my motto. 

E. I am very sorry to hear you say that. My father 
says it is a poor proverb. It would be better to wish for 
a long life and a useful one. But I can't stop here talk- 
ing with you all day. I might just as well try to beat 
reason into granite walls as to try to beat anything into 
your cranium. I will just tell you a story about a man, 
whose life was saved by his knowing how to write. 



156 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

There was once a war between Russia and Poland, and 
a gentleman went from America to carry some stand- 
ards to the poor Poles, and to help them. When he ar- 
rived there, the Russians had conquered Poland; and 
they took him and put him in a dungeon, and would 
not let anybody know where he was. They searched 
him, and took away everything he had in his pockets. 
By accident, he found a little piece of pencil, which had 
slipped through a hole in the lining of his vest-pocket, 
and had escaped their notice. He did not know how or 
where to get a piece of paper ; but at last, took a piece 
of the white lining of his hat. He then wrote a few 
words to the American consul, which he contrived, in 
some way, (I do not remember how,) to give through 
the bars of his dungeon to some one friendly to him, 
who carried it to the consul, and as soon as he knew 
that there was an American in prison there, he had him 
set free. Now, if he had not known how to write, he 
might have died there ; for the people did not under- 
stand his language, nor he theirs. 

J. Well, I suppose there must be some use in it, 
then, as you say. But why don't all the rest of the 
boys go ? 

E. Some of them do ; but many of them think and 
act as you do. 

J. How often do you have to go? 

E. I suppose I ought to go regularly every Monday, 
Thursday, and Friday, (the regular days for the school,) 
but I confess I don't go so regularly as I ought. At any 
rate, I have improved considerably as it is, and the mas- 
ter says I might have got one of the premiums, if I had 
gone regularly all the time. 

J. The premiums ! what are they ? 

E. Why, the one that makes the best improvement 
at his school is to have a splendid port-folio, worth 
seven or eight dollars ; the next best, a splendid gold 
pencil, or a gold pen, or an elegant book, and so on. 

/. Why didn't you tell me that in the first place? I 
guess I shall try to go myself. I don't care so much 
about a book, but I do want a jack-knife most awfully ! 
If you will tell the master to give me one, I will go, for 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 157 

I guess my father will pay for me. if I coax him pretty 
hard. 

E. Well, I '11 come and call you at the beginning of 
the next term; and as you write a pretty bad hand now, 
I guess you will stand a good chance to get one of the 
premiums, if you try hard. 

J. But I don't know how to write at all. 

E. That don't make any difference; for he teaches 
people who never wrote any ; and the poet says, — 

" Let those write now. who never wrote before ; 
And those who always wrote, now write the more." 

But I must go, or I shall be late to writing-school; so, 
good-by. 

J. Good-by. Now don't forget to call for me ; fori 
mean to try for one of those premiums. 



DIALOGUE LX. 
TRUTH-TELLING. 

(Elizabeth, and Adelaide, in a school-room.) 

Elizabeth. Adelaide. I mean to see Anna's new book. 
I think she is very covetous, to keep it all to herself as 
she does, and let no one look at it. 

Adelaide. I dare say she will have no objections to 
your looking at it, when she has finished reading it her- 
self, for she is not a covetous girl. 

Eliz. I do not know what you would call covetous, 
if she is not. Why, I asked her yesterday to show it to 
me, and she wrapped it up in her apron as quickly as 
she could, just as if she thought I should hurt it by even 
looking at the covers, and seemed as proud as if it had 
been made of gold. 

Ade. Well, dear Elizabeth, we ought to excuse her, 
if she does appear a little proud of her book just now ; 
for you know she received it as a prize for her good 
scholarship. 

Eliz. I know it : but that is no excuse for her being 
14 



158 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

so miserly and important. I shouldn't have hurt her 
book any more than she would herself. 

Ade. I dare say not, Elizabeth ; and I have no doubt 
Anna will be perfectly willing to lend it to you, as soon 
as she has read it herself. 

Ellz. I do not believe but that she has read it already, 
only she does not like to oblige me. I am sure if it had 
been my book, it would have been read long ago. 

Ade. I presume it would; but then you know that 
Anna always studies her lessons, and makes sure that 
they are perfect, before she reads or plays, which, you 
know, is not always the case with you. 

Eliz. I can't help it if she does ; she might have read 
it before this time, and learned her lessons too. 

Ade. Why, Elizabeth, you know she has a right to 
be as long as she pleases in reading it, and no one is en- 
titled to find fault, even if she is a month. 

Eliz. Well, all I have to say about it is, I mean to 
see the book, whether she is willing or not. So I shall 
go and get it now. 

Ade. Why, Elizabeth, you surely will not take it 
without her permission, will you 1 

Eliz. I most surely will, Miss Preacher ! and I do 
not expect that you will be such a tell-tale as to tell her 
of it, either. 

Ade. It she should inquire of me whether I know 
anything about it, you would not have me tell her a 
falsehood, would you? If you would, I cannot. 

Eliz. No ; I do not wish any one to tell a falsehood 
for me; but you can keep out of her way, so that she 
will not ask you. 

Ade. I am not so very sure but that would be the 
very way to make her ask me. If I were to go skulk- 
ing around like a thief, she would suspect me at once. 

Eliz. La ! Who has said anything about skulking ? 
I haven't, I 'm sure ! I only ask you to go out at one 
door, when she comes in at another. 

Ade. A fine piece of business, truly ! I tell you 
plainly, Elizabeth, if you take that book, you must 
manage the matter yourself. I shall not betray you 
unless I am inquired of; neither shall I put myself to 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 159 

the least inconvenience to avoid inquiries. I give you 
fair warning ! 

Ellz. Thank yon. Miss Preacher ! Much obliged for 
all your advice, and your kindness ; but I think, on the 
whole, that as I am not a baby, I can go without lead- 
ing-strings. So here comes the book, and now for a 
feast ! {She takes the book from Anna's desk.) 

Ade. I fear, Elizabeth, that you will not find it a 
feast, after all. I think your conscience will trouble you 
some. 

Ellz. I will risk it: so don't distress yourself with 
any more fears on my account. I will take care of my- 
self. 

Ade. Well. Elizabeth, I hope you will not get your- 
self into any difficulty. that's all. But I must go now 
to my dinner, for it will soon be school-time. And I 
advise you to put that book back, and go too. 

Ellz. Good-by, Miss Preacher ! When 1 am ready, 
I will go to my dinner. And when I have read the book 
through, I will put it back ! 

{Adelaide goes out. and Elizabeth sits down to read, 
when Anna and Mary come In. talking together, and 
Elizabeth starts up, in some confusion, and thrusts the 
book behind something In her desk, and begins to put on 
her hat and shawl.") 

Anna. Come, Mary, there will be plenty of time be- 
fore school to show you my new book. I want you to 
see it. {She goes to her desk to look for her book, and 
discovers that it is gone. Looks much surprised.) My 
book is gone ! Somebody has got my book ! 

Mary. Oh, I hope not, Anna ! It must be behind 
something. 

Anna. No, it isn't! No, it isn't! It is gone! 
Somebody has taken it, I know. Elizabeth, have you 
seen my book? or do you know anything about it? 

Ellz. I ! What should 1 know about your book ? 
Do you suppose I have nothing else to do but look after 
your book? 

Anna. No, indeed, Elizabeth ; but I did not know but 
you might have seen some person go to my desk while 
T was gone. 



160 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Eliz. Well,— I didn't. 

Anna. And you have not touched it yourself, have 
you? 

Eliz. No ; I never touched your book in my life ; and 
I shan't stay here to be questioned any longer. {She 
goes out.) 

Mary. Don't worry, Anna: I am sure you will find 
it again. 

Anna. Where can it be? I am afraid it has been 
stolen ! 

Mary. Oh, Anna, not stolen ! May be one of the 
girls has taken it to read a little while, and will bring it 
back. 

Anna, But who could it be? All the girls were gone 
away when we went excepting Elizabeth and Adelaide; 
and I do not believe it was Adelaide; and you know 
Elizabeth positively denies knowing anything about it. 
And she certainly would not be so foolish and wicked 
as to tell a falsehood. 

Mary. No, I hope not, Anna ; but did n't you see how 
confused she looked, when we first saw her ? 

Anna. Yes, I did observe it; but she might have 
been a little startled or offended about something. 

Mary. She might have been : if she had not so posi- 
tively denied it. I should think she had taken the book 
ill order to vex you. But here comes Adelaide. Let us 
ask her : she will tell the truth. Adelaide ! 

Ade. Well, girls, what is wanting? 

Anna, I have lost my new book: — when I went 
home to my dinner, it was here in my desk; but when 
I came back, it was gone. Do you know anything 
about it? {Adelaide looks confused, and does not reply.) 
Why, Adelaide, what is the matter? You have not 
taken it, surely ! If you have, you need not be so fright- 
ened, for you are welcome to use it as long as you please. 
Only I am sorry that you did not give me the pleasure 
of lending it to you. 

Ade. No, Anna; I have never touched your book. 
You know I never touch what does not belong to me. 

Anna, I know it, Adelaide; I am sure of it; and I 
am glad you did not take it. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 161 

Mary. But I am sure, by her looks, that Adelaide 
knows where it is. 

Anna. Do you, Adelaide ? 

Ade. Will you both promise to forgive the person, if 
I should happen to know, and tell you who it is? 

Anna. Certainly; — and she may read the book as 
long as she pleases. 

Ade. And you will not expose her ? 

Anna. No ; we will not. 

Ade. Well, then, it was Elizabeth. 

Anna and Mary. Elizabeth ! Why, she denied posi- 
tively having seen it. 

Ade. Can it be possible? It must have been in a 
joking way, then. 

Anna. No, indeed ; she was very angry, and declared 
she never had touched it in her life. 

Ade. But she certainly took it ; and if you will re- 
member your promise, not to tell any one about the 
matter, I will ask her for it as soon as she comes in. 

Anna. I will not forget that; but I will not wait until 
she comes ; I will look in her desk now. {She goes to 
Elizabeth 1 s desk, and, after a moment's search, takes 
out the book.) Here it is, sure enough ! Oh, how could 
she tell a falsehood about it? What shall we do, Mary 
and Adelaide? 

Mary. We must let her know privately that we know 
all about it, and talk with her on the sin of telling false- 
hoods. 

Anna. There she comes, now. Now, who shall speak 
to her first? I can't. 

Ade. And I am sure I cannot. 

Mary. I will, then, although I can hardly bear to do so. 

(Elizabeth enters, and all stand looking at her.) 

Eliz. What makes you all look at me so ? Do you 
think I have been stealing? 

Mary. No, indeed, Elizabeth; we do not think of 
such a thing. But we want to talk to you about Anna's 
book. 

Eliz. Anna's book? Haven't you found that yet? 
If you have not, how do you suppose I can help it ? 
14* 



162 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Mary. Take care, Elizabeth ! the book is found ! 

Ellz. [Starting.] Found? Where? 

Mary. Where you put it; — in your desk ! 

Ellz. In my desk ? Well, does it follow that I put 
it there ? 

Mary. Take care, Elizabeth ! don't deny it anymore. 
Adelaide has told us how it came there. 

Ellz. Adelaide? Well, as she knows, I only — only 
wanted to look at it a little, and then put it back. 

Anna. Well, Elizabeth, you should not have taken it 
privately. Had I known you were so anxious to see it, 
I am sure I would have lent it to you. 

Eliz. But you know I asked you for it yesterday, 
and instead of lending it to me, you wrapped it in your 
apron, and would not let me see it at all. That made 
me angry. 

Anna. {Going to Elizabeth, and putting her arm 
around her vvalst.) So I did, Elizabeth. I am ashamed 
to confess it ; and I do not wonder you were angry. I 
am as much to blame as you are. 

Ellz. No, you are not, Anna. And if you did not 
do right, it was no excuse for taking your book, — much 
less for telling a falsehood. 

Mary. True, Elizabeth ; there is never an excuse for 
telling a falsehood. 

Ellz. But, Mary, I can profit by the shame and re- 
gret 1 now feel in consequence of it. And I am sure it 
will be a lesson I shall never forget. 

Ade. I am sure you will not, Elizabeth. And now 
tell me that you forgive my telling the truth about 
you. 

Eliz. It is much easier for me to forgive you for tell- 
ing the truth, than for you to forgive my telling a false- 
hood. 

Ade. We will all forgive you for that; but there is 
another, whose forgiveness is of more consequence. Do 
you think who it is ? 

Ellz. Yes ; it is our Heavenly Father ; and I shall 
not forget, in my daily prayers, to ask his forgiveness 
for the past, and his aid in assisting me always to speak 
the truth in the future. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 163 

Mary. A good resolution, Elizabeth, for you and for 
all of us. 

Anna. So I think. And now let us close this scene 
by singing a little hymn about speaking the truth. 

Always Speak the Truth. 

Dear children, 't is a fearful thing 

A wicked lie to tell ; 
No comfort, after such a deed, 

Can in the bosom dwell ! 
With shame, and sorrow, and disgrace, 

It shadows o'er our youth, 
While peace and happiness are theirs, 

Who always speak the truth. 

Oh ! children, if our daily paths 

Temptation should beset — 
Should we by falsehood's dangerous wiles 

At every turn be met — 
Oh ! let us humbly pray, that God 

Will sinless keep our youth, 
And lead us, whatsoe'er our lot, 

To always speak the truth. 

Long may we keep our hearts from guile, 

Our lips from falsehood's stain ; 
For who, when once we have deceived, 

Will trust our word again ? 
I would not, all the world to win, 

Become a lying youth ; 
For God in anger looks on him 

Who does not speak the truth. 

Oh ! Father, on this little band 

Of children now look down, 
And deign, in gentleness and love, 

To make them all thine own. 
From grief, from sorrow, and from sin, 

Preserve their tender youth ; 
And oh ! in mercy grant that they 

May always speak the truth. 



164 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE LXI. 

BE OBLIGING. 

Sister. Why not go with me, Thomas? 

Brother. Because I can't. ; that is reason enough. 

& I am sure you could go, if you would. Pa said 
you might go; you are well, the walking is fine, and 
now, when you say you cannot go, I am inclined to 
think you mean that you will not. But there is one 
thing can be done. I can go alone : but I would rather 
not. 

B. It won't hurt you to walk alone in the evening, 
any more than in the day-time. 

S. It may be so ; but you know, Thomas, that I don't 
think so. You know that I always think it unsafe to 
walk so far alone, in the night. And whatever you may 
suppose, or whatever I ought to do, I cannot, at once, get 
rid of this feeling. But if you are determined not to go, 
there 's an end of it. We will not spend time in talking 
about it. I only beg you to consider what you would 
wish to have me do, in the same circumstances. That 
is, suppose you were a female, fourteen years of age, 
and Sarah Collins had sent for you (as she has for me) 
to come and watch with her. Would you like to go a 
mile and a half, through the woods, alone, in the night? 

B. Perhaps not. But Mrs. Collins might have sent 
somebody to accompany you. 

& She has nobody — poor woman! — to send. When 
Sarah is sick, she is without help, except her dog Jow- 
ler ; and he cannot go of errands. 

B. But she sent for you, you say. 

>S. Yes ; but she sent by Mr. Cartwright, who hap- 
pened to be coming this way. 

B. I wish to get my lesson to-night. It will take me 
two hours to study it thoroughly. It is true, it might 
be done in the morning, before school ; but I had rather 
attend to it to-night, and then I shall not have it to think 
of. 

S. I have told you, already, that we will not spend 
time in talking about it ; for it is of no use. I see that 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 165 

you are determined not to oblige me. It is always so. 
Neither father nor I have yet been able to reason you 
out of it. You are always ready with some excuse for 
staying at home, when I wish you to go anywhere with 
me. Your excuse, now, is as good an one as you ever 
have ; and yet you say yourself that you could get your 
lesson tOrmorrow morning. Ah ! Thomas, I am afraid 
you are too selfish. I am afraid that you think very 
little of making other people happy. Well, Thomas, go 
on in this course a few years, and you will be a man : — 
but what sort of a man, do you think 7 — A selfish boy 
always, or almost always, makes a selfish, unsocial, — 
often a miserly man. But good-night, for I must go. 

B. Stop, a moment, till I can find my hat. I must 
go with you, I suppose. 

& Go cheerfully, if you go at all. Go, because you 
think you ought to go, — not because you suppose you 
must. 

B. No, no; I go because I am convinced, on the 
whole, that I should like to have you do the same by 
me, if I were in the same circumstances. I go, too, be- 
cause I pity poor Mrs. Collins. Who knows but she 
may want medicine for Sarah ? and in that case, per- 
haps, I could run over to Mr. Smith's, the druggist, and 
get it for her. 



DIALOGUE LXII. 
mrs. ingot's eall; or, out of the frying-pan into the 

FIRE. 

CHARACTERS. 

Mrs. Ingot, an aspiring person, who has married a man of 

whose famil3' she is ashamed. 
Miss Heartless, her sister. 
Servant. 

(Mrs. Ingot is seated, and Miss Heartless enters.) 

Mrs. Ingot. Oh, sister, I am so glad to see you ! Do 
sit down ! I have settled everything in the most satis- 
factory manner, relating to the party. Mr. Ingot is in 
the best possible humor, because I have invited all his 



166 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



vulgar relations to the ball ; and he has given me the 
"largest liberty" as to expense. I am so delighted I 
hardly know what to do with myself. 

Miss Heartless. But, my dear sister, how could you 
invite all those horrid people? I am sure I would go 
without a party to the end of time, sooner than submit 
to so mortifying an alternative. 

Mrs. I. To be sure you would, and so would I ; but 
just listen, and you shall hear how admirably I have 
managed it. Both of Mr. Ingot's brothers have gone to 
New York for goods, and will not return before the ball; 
his sister, Mrs. Stubbs, is in mourning for her father-in- 
law ; his cousins, the Spicers, are all ill with the scarlet 
fever, and uncle Jabez has gone down east to spend 
Thanksgiving. Did you ever know anything happen 
more fortunately? I declare I feel as if all these things 
had occurred solely to please me. 

Miss H. But, sister, you seem to have forgotten the 
most important and the most detestable of the whole 
family — your mother-in-law, old Mrs. Ingot, and her 
frightful daughter, Miss Beckey. I can see them in 
fancy now, — Miss Beckey supporting her hump upon 
one of your damask cushions, and the old lady shaking 
her huge sides, and chattering like a magpie to all 
around. I '11 bet you as many gloves as you can pay 
for, that she tells every one who comes near her how 
her husband made his money. 

Mrs. I. But you are mistaken, sister. I have not 
forgotten them. They were my chief uneasiness, and, 
much as I desired this party, I assure you I would never 
have given it, if I had had the most distant idea they 
would come; — the old lady, particularly, who, added to 
her absurd appearance, never opens her lips but to make 
herself ridiculous, and expose her ignorance and vulgar- 
ity. No ; I could not bear it ! Miss Beckey is certainly 
bad enough; but Mrs. Ingot is perfectly unendurable. 
However, let me tell you how 'cutely I have managed 
it. The old lady has the rheumatism so badly, that she 
cannot rise from her chair ; and the erysipelas in her 
nose besides. So she is as safe as if she were in the pen- 
itentiary. Then as for Miss Beckey, I was dreadfully 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 167 

afraid that I should have to submit to her coming; but 
I have fallen upon an expedient which I am sure will 
settle her case. 

Miss H. Indeed, you are sadly mistaken, if you think 
you have settled her. I met her this morning in a shop, 
matching her everlasting old brown satin, of which she 
gave me the history for the hundredth time ; and she 
said she was going to wear it to your party, with her 
equally ancient scarlet turban. Oh, that turban ! it 
looks like a red horse-blanket, and three turkey's feath- 
ers ! 

Mrs. I. But don't speak of that turban ! Just listen 
to me. It was only a short time since that I fell upon 
this expedient to keep her away. I wrote her a note, 
telling her that we were going to have tableaux, and I 
explained them as a sort of theatrical exhibition ; and I 
feel certain, that the old maid's scruples will not permit 
her to come. 

Miss H. {Rising to go.) Well, I hope you are right 
in your notions ; but I really have my misgivings. She 
will come if she can ; though she is nothing to the old 
lady; and I must say you are in luck as regards her. 

[Servant enters, with a note.) 

Mrs. I. Stay, sister ; here is Miss Beckey's reply to 
my note ; do let me read it to you. 

( They sit dozen, and Mrs. Ingot opens the note, and 
reads as follows :) 

"My Dear Sister: I received your note this morn- 
ing, in due time. I am very much concerned, not to 
say disappointed, at the information it contained, espe- 
cially as it came so late ; otherwise I should not have 
cared so much; — but I have been to considerable ex- 
pense in getting a new body put to my handsome brown 
satin, (the one, you know, that was so much admired at 
the Peace ball,) and I have had my flamingo turban got 
up in an entire new style. However, among relations, 
these things must not be minded ; and I am much 
obliged to you for the hint about theatricals. I am sure 
it will disappoint you not to have me ; but, as you say, 
{ it would n't do.' And now, my dear sister, I am going 



168 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

to give you an agreeable surprise. Mother has made up 
her mind to go to your ball ; she says the theatricals 
will be the very thing for her. She can be carried up 
early in her arm-chair, and can look at her ease; and, 
above all, the brown satin fits her to a T! The dear 
flamingo, too, suits her very well ; and as it is so bright a 
scarlet, I am in hopes the erysipelas in her nose will not 
show at all !" 

{Mrs. Ingot drops the note, and both ladies raise their 
hands, Mrs. I. exclaiming :) Oh, that flamingo turban ! 
what shall I do 7 



DIALOGUE LXIII. 
JONATHAN AND SIMON. 

(Jonathan enters, with a cane and pack upon his back.) 

Simon. Well, well; this is amusing, I declare. I 
judge, from appearances, you are about setting out for 
the "far west." You seem to be invested with the mi- 
gratory panoply, surely. 

Jonathan. Yes, "far west" is the phrase v ith me 
now. The first, and all important thought of a Yankee,* 
on arriving to the years of manhood, you know, is to 
settle himself in the world; which is nothing more nor 
less than to begin to ramble. Yes, Simon, I have mar- 
ried a buxom young country lass, as dashy as anything 
you '11 find in these parts, I tell you, and provided my- 
self with this ponderous knapsack you see here, as a sort 
of carry-all, and we are soon to set out on our journey 
to a land flowing with — with — (scratching his head) 
— Indians and honey. 

S. I must confess, Jonathan, you do not seem to be 
much concerned as to your success after arriving in the 
uncultivated regions of the west. You seem to be as 
confident of the protection of Divine Providence as ever 
did a patriarch of old, when he journeyed into a strange 
country of the Gentiles. 

J. Certainly; it is a very prominent feature in the 
character of a Yankee, you know, to feel confident of 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 169 

success ; for, being determined to prosper, he will take 
advantage of the circumstances in which he is placed, 
and if he cannot succeed to his mind in one thing, he 
has the faculty of taking up another; and as to myself, 
I intend to go directly into the wilderness, and build a 
log cabin, and clear away a corn-field, and potato-patch, 
and ere long you'll find I shall be surrounded by a snug 
little farm, and a pasture full of sheep and hogs that 
have sprung up as if by magic. 

*S*. Ha! ha! how fruitful your imagination is, Jona- 
than ! How easy it is for you to build "castles in the 
air.'" If you had said it was more in accordance with 
the characteristics of the Yankee to be satisfied only 
with continual change, I think you would have come 
nearer the true point : for it is universally known they 
are more noted for that, together with their shrewdness, 
than anything else. Now my advice to you, Jonathan, 
is, to remain where you are, rather than to leave your 
native soil for a country you know nothing of, save by 
report. I have travelled in the western country to some 
extent, and have had an opportunity of seeing some of 
my old acquaintances settled upon the soil they once 
believed was so rich in everything that makes a man 
comfortable: but they have found out their mistake, I 
assure you. 

J. Poh ! poh ! Simon. I think if no one ever thought 
more of enterprise than yourself, we should not have 
arrived at our present point of advancement. I be- 
lieve in every man's doing something to help on the 
great cause of public improvement ; and it is very evi- 
dent the vast extent of territory at the west must, ulti- 
mately, be improved, and peopled : so I am determined 
to be prompt in doing my share towards it, as far forth 
as I can — make money. 

& You seem to use very patriotic language, indeed, 
Jonathan ; but, unless I am greatly deceive^, you think 
more of your pocket than you do of the good of the ris- 
ing generation. It is a very easy thing for you to imag- 
ine success in your peregrinations ; but realities must be 
contended with, Jonathan ; you may depend upon that. 

/. I expect, Simon, on mv first entry to these western 
15 



170 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

wilds, to find many obstacles to contend with ; and I ex- 
pect to overcome them — I am determined so to do. I 
know in that country there are bears, catamounts, and 
all such detestable pests, to fight with ; but, thanks to 
my genius, I am prepared for them ; for I 've invented a 
machine for throwing hot water, which will discharge 
about sixty gallons per minute ; and if I get a chance to 
level the instrument at a flock of these nuisances, I 
"guess" they'll think there is a water volcano in the 
neighborhood. I can imagine my eyes greeted with a 
view of a big black bear, with one of my fattest pigs in 
his mouth, about making his escape, and myself about 
to discharge a volley of the heated fluid upon him, 
which, when he receives, may impress upon his mind 
that he has caught a porcupine instead of a pig. 

S. Jonathan, I perceive that my advice seems to have 
but little effect in dissuading you from your purpose; — 
your mind seems to be ready to meet all obstacles which 
may arise, and with all my heart I wish you success in 
overcoming them ; but I am somewhat fearful there will 
be periods in your western career which will cause you 
to reflect upon the advice I now give you ; and it is my 
belief you will see the time when you will wish you had 
given heed to it. 

J. Well, Simon, perhaps I may ; but the trial is to be 
made, you know ; for I dislike, very much, to be talked 
out of a scheme which I have so well matured as this, I 
assure you. 

S. I like your firmness, Jonathan ; but one thing, 
perhaps, you have not thought sufficiently of yet, which 
is, the expense of getting yourself and chattels there. It 
costs nearly as much to travel into the western states, as 
to purchase a small farm when you get there. 

J. I know that is an important point to be consid- 
ered; but my household furniture, farming utensils, 
family, which consists of a wife and cat, together with 
my own and wife's wardrobe, will be hoisted into a cov- 
ered wagon which I have, and Avith the old gray don- 
key, we shall soon arrive where I can make myself 
comfortably rich ; so. good-by to you, Simon. Hurrah 
for the west ! 



SCHQOL DIALOGUES. 171 

S. Success to you, Jonathan, success ; and do all you 
can out there to keep politics alive. 

J. To keep Polly who alive, did you say 1 

S. To keep politics alive, I said. 

J. O, yes ; to keep poli-tics alive ! Yes, yes ; I '11 
look after that ; don't you be alarmed on that point. So, 
good-by to you. 

8. Good-by, and good luck to you, Jonathan. 



DIALOGUE LXIV. 
THE TWO STUDENTS. 

Charles. Good-morning, George ! I have interesting 
information to communicate to you this morning. 

George. Have you? Well, I shall feel pleased to 
hear any news that is pleasant to you, I 'm sure. 

C. We have talked much, you know, of the applica- 
tion made by my father, a short time since, to obtain an 
appointment for me as Cadet, at the Military Academy, 
West Point. 

G. Certainly, we have talked of it much; and I 
judge, from your countenance, that you have received 
agreeable information with regard to it. 

C. I have, most assuredly. This letter, which I have 
just taken from the post-office, contains the much-wished- 
for intelligence ; and my father has now in his posses- 
sion the appointment, which he received one week ago. 
He wishes me to leave this school immediately, in order 
to make special preparations for the examination for ad- 
mission, which takes place on the 20th of June next. 

G. Charles, I can but congratulate you upon your 
success, but still I feel grieved to think we must so soon 
separate. I little thought, while speaking with you yes- 
terday of my intention of leaving for the south in Au- 
gust next, we should be obliged to part before that time. 
But, Charles, do you think you will like the life of a 
soldier 1 

C. Without a doubt, without a doubt, George ; for it 
is on the high road to distinction : and with this view in 
mind, it would be a very desirable situation, even if the 



172 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

occupation in itself was not so agreeable as might be 
wished. 

G. But are not the regulations of the institution very 
rigid? And will you find as much pleasure there, do 
you think, as you at first anticipated? 

C. I have thought for a long time I should prefer it 
to any other employment which could be named : and 
since there has been an opening in prospect for me at 
this school, I have taken occasion to make inquiries with 
regard to their regulations, and although rather strict, 
they are not more so, I presume, than is for the benefit 
of those who enter. 

G. Will you give me some information, Charles, of 
the proceedings at this seminary ? I should like to know 
what you will be obliged to submit to. 

C. The course of instruction embraces a term of four 
years, during which time the cadets are allowed to visit 
home but once, and that at the expiration of two years 
from the time they enter. They camp out during a 
portion of the warm season of the year, and learn, 
practically, the duties of a soldier. They are instruct- 
ed thoroughly in the most important of the English 
branches, and in the French language, and during the 
last year they remain at the institution they give partic- 
ular attention to the art of horsemanship, fencing, &c. 
A class graduate annually, and the five individuals who 
stand highest receive the appointments of engineers, and 
the others graduate as lieutenants. The course of in- 
struction being very thorough at this school, renders it a 
very desirable situation for a young man. 

G. I dare say it is a fine school : but I should not 
like, after completing my course, to be ordered off to 
fight an enemy. I would willingly relinquish the honor 
of an officer, if honor it can be called, rather than ex- 
pose my body as a mark to be shot at, by a Mexican or 
any one else. 

C. There is but a slight probability that many of the 
cadets will ever be called upon to fight, I presume; but 
if an occasion should offer, however, I think I should 
not decline the honor of my station ; for in battle the 
officers are much less exposed than the soldiery; and, 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 173 

after participating bravely in an engagement, there is a 
great degree of satisfaction in knowing that the commu- 
nity look upon you as one who has rendered important 
service to his country. 

G. But honor is not always given to whom it is due. 
The poor soldier who toils amid the heat and danger of 
the battle is shot down and forgotten, quietly yielding 
up the honor he has so dearly bought, to redound to the 
glory of his commander, who is far less deserving it; 
but, Charles, I hope you will be successful, and gradu- 
ate with satisfaction to yourself and friends, and never 
have an opportunity to apply your knowledge of war in 
the defence of the United States, for I hope we shall be 
so much at peace with the nations of the earth in com- 
ing time, as to render all such knowledge unnecessary. 

C. I thank you, George, for your kind wishes, and 
agree with you in hoping we may never have an oppor- 
tunity to apply our knowledge of war; and every true 
patriot doubtless would express the same feelings ; but 
it is natural to suppose that in the common course 
of things we are liable to be called upon to defend our 
country from invasion, and it becomes us, as a nation, 
to make such preparations as will enable us to do so in 
the most effective manner possible. 

G. Well, Charles, perhaps it may be so; you have 
my best wishes for success in your undertaking, and I 
hope you will favor me with communications often, that 
I may know of your progress from time to time. I 
shall, doubtless, be at New Orleans soon after your ar- 
rival on the Hudson, and shall take great pleasure in 
hearing from you frequently. 

C. I shall not fail to write often, for I shall be highly 
gratified to correspond with such a friend as you have 
shown yourself to be ; but I shall see you again before I 
leave town, and then we will talk further upon the sub- 
ject ; — so, good-mornin g. 

G. Good-morning, Charles. 
15* 



174 SCIJOOL DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE LXV. 
THE COLONISTS. 

(Mr. Barlow and fifteen boys.) 

Mr. Barloio. Come, boys, I have a new play for you. 
I will be the founder of a colony ; and you shall be the 
people, of different trades and professions, coming to 
offer yourselves to go with me. What are you, Albert ') 

Albert. I am a farmer, sir. 

Mr. B. Very well; farming is the chief thing we 
have to depend upon, so we cannot have too much of 
it. But you must be a working farmer, not a gentle- 
man farmer. Laborers will be scarce among us, and 
every man must put his own hand to the plough. 
There will be woods to clear, and a plenty of hard work 
to do. 

Albert. I shall be ready to do my part. 

Mr. B. Well, then, I shall take you willingly, and as 
many more of your sort as you will bring. You shall 
have land enough, and tools, and you may fall to work 
as soon as you please. Who comes next? 

Samuel. I am a miller, sir. 

Mr. B. A very useful trade ! Our corn must be 
ground, or it will do us little good. But what will you 
do for a mill, my friend ? 

Samuel. I suppose we must make one, sir. 

Mr. B. True ; but then we must have a mill-wright. 
The mill-stones we will take out with us. Now for the 
next. 

Charles. I am a carpenter, sir. 

Mr. B. The most necessary man that could offer. 
We shall find you work enough, never fear. There 
will be houses to build, and fences to make, and all 
kinds of wooden furniture, and tools besides. But our 
timber is all growing. You will have a deal of hard 
work to do, in felling trees, and sawing planks, and 
shaping posts. 

Charles. I am not afraid of work, sir. 

Mr. B. Then I engage you, and you had better bring 
two or three able hands along with you. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 175 

David. I am a blacksmith, sir. 

Mr. B. An excellent companion for the carpenter. 
We cannot do without either of yon ; so you must bring 
your great bellows and anvil, and we will set up a forge 
for you as soon as we arrive. But, by-the-by, we shall 
want a mason for that purpose. 

Edward. I am one, sir. 

Mr. B. That's well. We shall live in log houses 
at first, but we shall want brick work, or stone work, for 
chimneys, hearths, and ovens : so there will be employ- 
ment for a mason. But can you make bricks and burn 
lime? 

Edviard. I will try what I can do, sir. 

Mr. B. No man can do more. I engage you. Who 
is next ? 

Francis. I am a shoemaker, sir. 

Mr. B. We cannot well go without shoes; but where 
can we get leather 1 

Francis. O. I can dress hides, too, sir. 

Mr. J3. Can you 1 Then you are a clever fellow, and 
I will have you, though I give you double wages. 

George. I am a tailor, sir. 

Mr. B. Well! we must not go naked. But I hope 
you are not above mending and botching, for we must 
not mind wearing patched clothes, while we work in the 
woods. 

George. I am not, sir. 

Mr. B. Then I engage you, too. 

Henry. I am a weaver, sir. 

Mr. B. Weaving is a very useful art ; but I trust our 
wives and daughters will manufacture all the wool and 
flax we shall have at present. In a few years we shall 
be very glad of you. 

John. I am a silversmith, sir. 

Mr. B. Then, my friend, you cannot go to a worse 
place than a new country to set up your trade. You 
will break us, or we shall starve you ; so for the present 
you had better remain where you are. 

Hiram. I am a barber, sir. 

Mr. B. Alas ! what can we do with you ? You will 
have no ladies and gentlemen to dress for a ball ; but if 



176 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



you will shave our rough beards once a week, and crop 
our hair once a quarter, and help the carpenter or follow 
the plough the rest of your time, you may go, and we 
will pay you accordingly. 

Leivis. I am a doctor, sir. 

Mr. B. Then, sir, you are very welcome. Health is 
the first of blessings ; and if you can give us that, you 
will be a valuable man indeed. We shall some of ns be 
sick, and we shall be likely enough to get cuts, and 
bruises, and broken bones occasionally. You will be 
very useful, and still more so if you understand the 
nature of plants, and their uses, both in medicine and 
diet. 

Leicis. Botany has been a favorite study with me. 
sir, and I have some knowledge of chemistry, too. 

Mr. B. Then you will be a treasure to us, sir, and I 
shall make it worth your while to go with us. 

Unfits. I, sir, am a lawyer. 

Mr. B. Sir, your most obedient servant. When we 
are rich enough to go to law, we will let you knpw. 

Newton. I am a schoolmaster, sir. 

Mr. B. That is a valuable profession, and we shall 
be very glad of your services. Though we work hard, 
we do not intend to be ignorant. We think every one 
ought to be taught how to read and write. If you will 
be willing to keep our accounts, and records, while the 
children are few, and read sermons to us on the Sab- 
bath, until we are able to settle a minister, we will en- 
gage you. 

Newton. With all my heart, sir. 

Mr. B. Then you may go. Who comes here, with so 
bold an air? 

Philip. I am a soldier, sir ; will you have me ? 

Mr. B. I hope we shall have no occasion to fight. 
We mean to live peaceably with all, to be just and fair 
in our dealings, and treat every one kindly, as William 
Penn, the Quaker, did, when he settled Pennsylvania. 
And, besides, I mean that every one shall know how to 
use arms, so that we can defend ourselves, if we should 
be attacked, and then we shall have no need of soldiers 
by trade. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 177 

Robert. I am a gentleman, sir; and i have a desire 
to accompany you, because I have heard that game is 
very plentiful in the new countries. 

Mr. B. A gentleman ! and what good will you do 
us, sir? 

Robert. O, sir, 1 have no notion of that, at all. I only 
mean to amuse myself. 

Mr. B. But do you mean, sir, that we should pay 
you for your amusement? 

Robert. Q, sir, I expect to kill game enough to eat; 
you will give me my bread, and a few garden vegeta- 
bles ; then I shall want a house a little better than the 
rest, and the barber shall be my servant. So I shall 
give you very little trouble. 

Mr. B. The barber is much obliged to you. But, 
pray, sir, why should we do ail this for you ? 

Robert. Why, sir, you will have the credit of having 
one gentleman in your colony. 

Mr. B. Ha! ha! ha! a fine gentleman, truly. Well, 
sir, when we are ambitious of having such a gentleman 
among us, we will let you know ; but, at present, we 
want no drones; and I think it might be better times in 
some other places, if there were not so many characters 
too proud and lazy to be useful. 



DIALOGUE LXV1. 
THE SOFT ANSWER. 

(Lawyer Trueman and Mr. Singleton.) 

Mr. Singleton. I '11 give him law to his heart's con- 
tent, the scoundrel ! 

Lawyer Trueman. Don't call harsh names, Mr. Sin- 
gleton. 

Sing. Every man should be known by his true 
name. Williams is a scoundrel, and so he ought to be 
called. 

True. My young friend, did you ever do a reasona- 
ble thing in your life when you were angry ? 

Sing. I can't say that I ever did, Mr. Trueman: but 



17S 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



now I have good reason for being angry, and the lan- 
guage I use, in reference to Williams, is but the expres- 
sion of a sober and rational conviction. 

True. Did you pronounce him a scoundrel before you 
received this reply to your last letter ? 

Sing. No, I did not; but that letter confirmed my 
previously formed impressions of his character. 

True. But I cannot find, in that letter, any evidence 
proving your late partner to be a dishonest man. He 
will not agree to your proposed mode of settlement, be- 
cause he does not see it to be the most proper way. 

Sing. (Excited?) He won't agree to it, because it is 
an honest and equitable mode of settlement, that is all ! 
He wants to overreach me, and is determined to do so, 
if he can ! 

True. There you are decidedly wrong. You have 
both allowed yourselves to. become angry, and are both 
unreasonable ; and, if I must speak plainly, I think you 
are the most unreasonable, in the present case. Two 
angry men can never settle any business properly. You 
have unnecessarily increased the difficulties in the way 
of a speedy settlement, by writing Mr. Williams an 
angry letter, which he has responded to in the like un- 
happy temper. Now, if I am to settle this business for 
you, I must write all letters that pass to Mr. Williams 
in future. 

Sing. But how can you properly express my views 
and feelings'] 

True. That I do not wish to do. if your views and 
feelings are to remain as they now are — for anything 
like an adjustment of the difficulties, under such circum- 
stances, I should consider hopeless. 

Sing. Well, let me answer this letter, and after that 
I promise that you shall have your own way. 

True. No; I shall consent to no such thing. It is 
the reply to that letter which is to modify the negotia- 
tion for a settlement in such a way as to bring success 
or failure ; and I have no idea of allowing you, in the 
present state of your mind, to write such an one as will 
most assuredly defeat an amicable adjustment. 

Sing. {After a long paitse, to consider.) Indeed, I 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 179 

must write this letter, Mr. Trueman. There are some 
things that I want to say to him, which I know you 
won't write. You don't seem to consider the position 
in which he has placed me by that letter, nor what is 
obligatory upon me as a man of honor. I never allow 
any man to reflect upon me, directly or indirectly, with- 
out a prompt response. 

True. There is, in the Bible, a passage that is pecu- 
liarly applicable in the present case. It is this: — "A 
soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words 
stir up anger." I have found this precept, in a life that 
has numbered more than double your years, to be one 
that may be safely and honorably adopted, in all cases. 
You blame Mr. Williams for writing you an angry let- 
ter, and are indignant at certain expressions contained 
therein. Now, is it any more right for you to write an 
angry letter, with cutting epithets, than it is for him? 

Sing. But, Mr. Trueman 

True. I do assure you, my young friend, that I am 
acting in this case for your benefit, and not for my 
own ; and, as your legal adviser, you must submit to my 
judgment, or I cannot consent to go on. 

Sing. If I will promise not to use any harsh lan- 
guage, will you not consent to let me write the letter? 

True. You and I, in the present state of your mind, 
could not possibly come at the same conclusion in refer- 
ence to what is harsh and what is mild ; therefore I 
cannot consent that you shall write one word of the pro- 
posed reply — I must write it. 

Sing. Well. I suppose, then, I shall have to submit. 
Write, if you please, and let me see what sort of a letter 
you propose. 

True. ( Writes^a ivhile, and then reads the draft of a 
letter.') " Dear Sir, — I regret that my proposition did 
not meet your approbation. The mode of settlement 
which I suggested was the result of a careful considera- 
tion of our mutual interests. Be kind enough to sug- 
gest to Mr. Trueman, my lawyer, any plan which you 
think will lead to an early and amicable adjustment of 
our business. You may fely upon my consent to it, if 
it meets his approbation." 



180 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Sing. {Throwing the paper from him, with con- 
tem.pt.) Is it possible, Mr. Trueman, that you expect 
me to sign such a cringing letter as that? 

True. ( Very mildly.) Well, sir, what is your objec- 
tion to it? 

Sing. Objection ! How can you ask such a question? 
Am I to go on my knees to him, and beg him to do me 
justice ? No ! I '11 sacrifice every cent I 've got in the 
world first — the scoundrel ! 

True. [Looking him. steadily in the face.) Mr. Sin- 
gleton, you wish to have your business settled, do you 
not? 

Sing. Of course I do — honorably settled. 

True. Well, what do you mean by an honorable set- 
tlement ? 

Sing. Why, I mean, I mean, — {Hesitating. ) 

True. Yon mean a settlement in which your inter- 
ests shall be equally considered with those of Mr. Wil- 
liams? 

Sing. Yes, certainly; and that 

True. And that Mr. Williams, in the settlement, shall 
consider and treat you as a gentleman? 

Sing. Certainly I do ; but this is more than he ever 
has done. 

True. Well, never mind. Let what is past go for as 
much as it is worth. The principal point of action is in 
the present. 

Sing. But I'll never send this mean, cringing letter, 
I can tell you. 

True. You mistake its whole tenor, I do assure you, 
Mr. Singleton. You have allowed your angry feelings 
to blind you. You, doubtless, carefully considered, be- 
fore you adopted it, the proposed basis of a settlement, 
did you not? 

Sing. Of course I did. 

True. So the letter whicli I have prepared for you 
states. Now, as an honest and honorable man, you are, 
I am sure, willing to grant to him the same privilege 
which you asked for yourself, # viz., that of proposing a 
plan of settlement. Your proposition does not seem to 
please him ; now it is but fair that he should be invited 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 181 

to state how he wishes the settlement to be made — and 
in giving such an invitation, a gentleman should use 
gentlemanly language. 

Sing. But he don't deserve to be treated like a gen- 
tleman. In fact, he has no claim to the title. 

True. If he has none, as you say, you profess to be a 
gentleman ; and all gentlemen should prove, by their ac- 
tions and words, that they are gentlemen. 

Sing. {Changing his tone.) I can't say that I am 
convinced by what you say ; but as you seem so bent 
on having it your own way, why, here, let me copy the 
thing and sign it. (Sits and w rites.) There, now, I 
suppose he "11 think me a low-spirited fellow, after he 
gets that; but he "s mistaken. After it ; s all over, I'll 
take good care to tell him that it didn't contain my sen- 
timents. 

True. (Folding the letter and smiling.) Come to- 
morrow afternoon, and I think we '11 have things in a 
pretty fair way. 



Scene II. The next day. Trueman's office. Enter 
Singleton. 

True. Good-afternoon, Mr. Singleton. 

Sing. Well, sir, have you heard from that milk-and- 
water letter of yours? I can't call it mine. 

True. Yes, here is the answer. Take a seat, and I 
will read it to you. 

Sing. Well, let 's hear it. 

True. (Takes out a letter and reads:) " Dear 
George, — I have your kind and gentlemanly note of 
yesterday, in reply to my harsh, unreasonable, and un- 
genllemanly one of the day before. We have both been 
playing the fool; but you are ahead of me in becoming 
sane. I have examined, since I got your note, more 
carefully the tenor of your disposition for a settlement, 
and it meets my views precisely. My foolish anger 
kept me from seeing it before. Let our mutual friend, 
Mr. Trueman, arrange the matter, according to the plan 
mentioned, and I shall most heartily acquiesce. 

"Yours. &c.. Thomas Williams." 

16 



LO& SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Sing. {Rising' from his seat.) He never wrote that 
letter in the world. 

True. {Handing him the letter^) You know his 
writing, I presume. 

Sing. {With emotion.) It's Thomas Williams' own 
hand, as I live ! My old friend, Thomas Williams, the 
best-natured fellow in the world ! What a fool I have 
been ! 

(E?iter Williams.) 

Williams. (Advancing, and extending his hand to 
Singleton.) And what a fool I have been, my friend ! 

Sing. (Grasping his hand.) God bless you, my 
dear friend ! Why, what has been the matter with us 
both ? 

True. (Advancing, and taking both by the hands.) 
My young friends, I have known you long, and have 
always esteemed you both. This pleasant meeting and 
reconciliation, you perceive, is of my arrangement. 
Now let me give you a precept that will make friends 
and keep friends. It has been my motto through life, 
and I don't know that I have an enemy in the world. 
It is, — " A soft answer turneth away wrath, but griev- 
ous words stir up anger." 



DIALOGUE LXVII. 
IDLENESS AND USEFULNESS. 

Fanny Gossip, Susan Lazy, and Laura Busy. 

Susan. Well, Fanny, I was on my way to your 
house. I thought I never should see your face again. 
Did you ever know such a long, stupid storm ? — noth- 
ing but rain, rain, rain, for three everlasting days ! 

Fanny. And in vacation-time, too ! — it did seem too 
bad ! If our house had not been on the street, so that I 
could see something stirring, I believe I should have had 
the blues. 

S. And I did have the blues, outright. I never was 
so dull in my life, moping about the house. Mother 
won't let me touch such books as I like to read, and the 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 183 

boys went to school all day ; so I had nothing on earth 
to do bnt look at the drops of rain racing down the win- 
dows, and watch the clouds to see if it was going to 
clear up. I assure you I fretted from morning till night, 
and mother got out of all patience with me, and said I 
was a perfect nuisance in the house ; but I am sure it 
was not my fault. 

F. Well ! I was a little better off. I sat half the time 
making fan of all the shabby cloaks and umbrellas that 
turned out in the rain. There was Mr. Skinflint went 
by, every day, with a cotton umbrella ; and Mr. Saveall 
with an old faded silk one, three of the whalebones 
started out on one side, as if he wanted to poke people's 
eyes out, and a great slit to let the rain through ; — both 
of them misers, I know ! And there was Miss Good- 
body ! she goes to see sick poor folks in all weathers, 
and won't take a carriage, though she can afford it, be- 
cause, she says, that would be ridiculous. I wish you 
had seen her come paddling through the wet ! — such 
shoes and such stockings ! — I do think it is unladylike. 
Then, when everything else failed to amuse me, there 
were our neighbors opposite to be speculated upon. 

S. Ah! Laura Busy lives just across the street, I 
believe. 

F. Yes, and there she sat, at the window, on pur- 
pose to be seen, stitching away, and reading, and setting 
herself up as a pattern to the whole neighborhood. 

S. I would not have such a strict mother as she has, 
for all the world. I don't believe she enjoys her vaca- 
tion at all. 

F. I dare say it is her mother that keeps her at it so 
close. I should think she was bringing her up to be a 
seamstress; and yet, considering that everybody knows 
Mr. Busy is not rich, they dress Laura extravagantly. 
Did you see that beautiful French calico she wore on 
examination day ? 

aS*. Yes, I saw it across the room, and thought I would 
go over and look at it, but I could n't take the trouble. 

F. Why, how you do gape, Susan ! 

S. I know it ; mother says I have a terrible trick of 
gaping. But I do get so tired ! 



184 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

F. Tired of what ') 

S. I don't know ; I am tired of the vacation. I believe ; 
and before the term was over I was wishing so for it ! 
I was tired to death of school, and dare say I shall be 
so again in a fortnight. 

F. Here comes Laura, glad enough to get away from 
mamma's work-basket. Just see how fast she walks ! 
— ah ha ! she is going to the circulating library ; look at 
that novel under her arm. 

& I shall tell my mother of that; she thinks every- 
thing right that the Busy family do. 

(Enter Laura.) 

F. Well, Laura, poor thing ! you are so glad to get 
out of the house that I suppose you are running away 
from it as fast as you can. 

Laura. I am not quite running, I believe; but you 
know I always walk fast. 

S. I can't think why, I am sure. 

L. It saves a deal of time, and the exercise does me 
more good than if I were to go sauntering along. 

$. Saves time 1 and in the vacation, too ? why, of 
what consequence is time now, when you have no 
school-hours to mind ? 

L. Because if 1 don't take care I shall not get through 
what I have planned. Only think how fast the vacation 
is going ! Next Monday school begins. 

F. So the studious Miss Laura Busy is sorry the va- 
cation is almost over ! I thought you told the master, 
when school broke up, that you wished there was no 
vacation. 

L. I did wish so then, for I thought vacation would 
be a dull time. 

8. I am sure it has been horrid dull to me, and I 
should think it must have been worse yet for you. 

L. Why? 

S. Because your mother keeps you at work all the 
time. 

L. Indeed she does not. She sent me out to walk, 
this very afternoon, and she always makes me put my 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 185 

work away at just such hours, for fear I should sit too 
close at my needle. 

S. Mercy ! do you love to sew ? — oh, I suppose you 
are learning fancy work : well, I don't know but I might 
like that for a little while. 

L. No, mother says I must not learn fancy work till 
I can do plain sewing extremely well. I was thinking 
how I should manage to pass the vacation, and I took 
it into my head that I would try to make a shirt by a 
particular time, and that is Saturday, my birthday. I 
shall be twelve years old next Saturday, and then I shall 
present my father with a shirt of my own making. 

S. Did you do all the fine stitching yourself? 

L. To be sure. 

& I am sure I would not make myself such a slave ! 

L. There is no slavery about it; it was my own 
pleasure ; and you cannot think how fast it has made 
the time go. I set myself a task every day, and then, 
you see, trying to get so much done by twelve o'clock 
made me feel so interested ! 

F. And the rest of the time you have been reading 
novels, I see. 

L. No, indeed ; I never read one in my life. Did you 
think this library-book was a novel ? 

F. Let me see it ; "Astoria ; " is not that the name of 
some heroine? — let me look at it a little. (Turning 
over the leaves.} 

L. You can't think how interesting it is. It gives an 
account of a place away on the western coast of North 
America ; and of all that the people suffered to get there ; 
and about the very wildest Indians, and the trappers, 
and the Rocky Mountains; and here is a map, you see, 
Susan. 

S. Oh, well ! it is a sort of geography-book, I suppose. 

L. Such books will make your geography pleasanter 
than ever, I am sure ; do read it. 

& Not I ; I have hardly touched a book or a needle 
this vacation, and I have no idea of it. These long 
summer days are tedious enough without that. 

L. But I do believe they would be pleasanter if you 
were only occupied about something or other. 
16* 



186 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

F. And so, Laura, you have really spent this whole 
vacation without a bit of amusement? I must say I 
think there is a little affectation in that. 

L. Oh, no, indeed ! I do not like to sit still from 
morning till night, any better than you do; and mother 
would not let me, if I did. I have taken a long, brisk 
walk, every day. 

F. What, alone 1 I hate walking alone. 

L. Not alone, very often; sister Helen sometimes 
walks over the bridge into the country with me, and we 
get wild flowers, and she explains all about them ; that 
we call going botanizing, and it makes the walks much 
more pleasant. It really made me stare when she pulled 
a common head of clover to pieces, and showed me how 
curiously it is made up of ever so many florets, as she 
calls them ; and even the dandelion is very queer. 

& And did you*go botanizing in the rain, too ? 

L. No ; of course we could not stir out then. 

& Then I rather think you found the last three days 
as dull as any of us. 

F. Not she, Susan. No doubt it was very pleasant 
to sit perched up at the window all day, for the passers 
to admire her industry. 

L. O, Fanny, how can you be so uncharitable ? If 
you had not been at the window so much yourself, you 
would not have seen me. 

F. But I was not making a display of myself, with 
a book or a needle forever in my hand. 

L. No, Fanny ; if you had been occupied, however, 
you would not have been making such unkind remarks 
about your neighbors, would you '? Did you not observe 
that my mother sat at the window with me ? The rea- 
son was, we cannot see to work in any other part of the 
room, when it is cloudy. You know our little breakfast- 
room has only one window. 

S. So, for the last three days you have been reading 
and poking your needle in and out, from morning till 
night 3 Well ! it would be the death of me. (Gaping.) 

L. Why, no ; I tell you I do not like sitting still for- 
ever, any more than you do ; I like to use my feet every 
day, as well as my hands, and I presume they expect it. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 187 

Too much stitching gives me a stitch in my side; so 
when rainy weather came I played battledoor and shut- 
tlecock with father when he came home to dinner, and 
one day we kept it up to five hundred and two. Then 
before tea I used to skip rope along the upper entry some- 
times; and then there was something else — but I sup- 
pose Fanny will tell all the girls in school, and make 
them laugh at me; but I really enjoyed it best of any- 
thing. 

F. What was it ? tell us, do ! I hate secrets. 

L. You like to find them out, I am sure ; but it is no 
mighty secret, after all; and I don't know why I need 
be ashamed to tell, for my father and mother made no 
objection. I went up into the nursery every evening, 
before the little ones went to bed, and played blind man's 
buff with them. 

F. And could you take any pleasure in it? 

L. To be sure. 

F. Then I must say I had no idea you were such a 
baby. Mr. Teachali's best scholar playing romping 
games with little children ! I am six months younger 
than you, Laura, but I hold myself rather too much of 
a woman for blind man's buff! I gave that up, three 
years ago ! 

L. Well ! it seemed to make the children enjoy their 
fun all the better, and I am sure it did me a deal of good, 
and did nobody any harm ; so I am content to be called 
a baby. 

& I don't see how you could take the trouble ; it tires 
me just to think of going racing about the room at that 
rate. I should as soon think of sitting down to study 
French for amusement. 

F. I wonder you did not do that too, Miss Busy. I 
declare, she looks as if she had ! Who would have 
thought of that ? 

L. I see no harm. You know how terrible hard those 
last lessons were before the term ended, and I was afraid 
I should forget them ; so I have been reviewing the last 
thirty pages with sister Helen, to keep what I had got, 
as she says, and make the next come easier. 



18S SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

& A pretty vacation, to be sure ! How upon earth 
did you find time for it all ? 

L. Why, I don't know. There are no more hours in 
my day than there are in yours, Susan. But good-by, 
girls ; I am going to see if aunt Kindly has come to town 
again. 

F. Stop a minute, Laura ; I am going shopping, and 
I want to know where your mother bought that lovely 
French cambric. I mean to tease my mother for one 
just like it. 

L. Mother did not buy it ; she would not think of 
getting me anything so expensive. Aunt Kindly sent it 
to me. 

F. Oh ho ! a present, was it 1 I never thought of 
that. I wonder what put it into her head. 

L. I believe she was pleased because, when mother 
was fitting out two poor boys to go to sea, I did some 
plain sewing for them. Your mother helped, too, Susan. 

& Why, that was before the vacation, and you never 
missed school a single day : how could you find time 
then ? 

L. I used to go at it before breakfast, and at every 
odd moment ; sometimes I could sew quarter of an hour 
while I was waiting for something or somebody, and 
even that helped on the work. I think that is a great 
advantage we girls have over boys. Mother says the 
needle darns up idle minutes, that are like holes in our 
time. Good-by ; you creep so like snails, I should think 
you would fall asleep. {Exit.) 

S. Well, Laura always looks so lively! but I would 
not lead such a life for anything. 

F, I begin to think I would, Susan ! she really makes 
me ashamed of myself; and I should think you would 
be so too, when you know your mother is always griev- 
ing at your laziness. I have heard her tell my mother 
twenty times that your indolence makes your life a bur- 
den to you, and that she is mortified when she thinks 
what kind of woman you will make. 

S. It is better to be idle than to be always talking 
about people, Fanny. {Pouting.) 

F. You are incurable, I do believe ; but I am not. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 189 

and I am gomg home, this minute, to find some work, 
and mind my own affairs. 

aS*. Why, I thought we were going shopping. 

F. But I am not in want of anything ; I was only 
going to kill time and pick up some news. I will try 
the experiment, at any rate ; I will lead Laura's life a 
couple of days, and see how I like it. I really think the 
time will not hang so heavy on my hands, and my 
tongue will not get me into so many difficulties. Good- 
by, Susan. 

$. Good-by. Oh, dear ! I wonder what I shall do 
with myself now ! 



DIALOGUE LXVIII. 
THE TENT SCENE BETWEEN BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 

Cassius. That you have wronged me, doth appear in 
this ; — 
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians; 
Wherein, my letters (praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man) were slighted of. 

Brutus.. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case. 

Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meet 
That every nice offence should bear its comment. 

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemned to have an itching palm ; 
To sell and mart your offices for gold, 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm ? 
You know that you are Brutus that speak this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last! 

Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption. 
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. 

Cas. Chastisement ! 

Bra. Remember March, the ides of March remember ! 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? 
What villain touched his body, that did stab, 
And not for justice ? What ! shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world, 



190 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

But for supporting robbers, — shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 
And sell the mighty space of our large honors, 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus 1 — 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Cas. Brutus, bay not me; 
I '11 not endure it. You forget yourself, 
To hedge me in : I am a soldier, I, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Bin. Go to ! you 're not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 

Brit. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; 
Have mind upon your health, — tempt me no further. 

Bru. Away, slight man ! 

Cas. Is 't possible ! 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 

Cas. O ye gods ! ye gods ! must I endure all this ? 

Bru. All this ! ay, more. Fret till your proud heart 
break : 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? 
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humor ? By the gods, 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, 
I '11 use you for my mirth ; yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

Cas. Is it come to this ? 

Bru. You say you are a better soldier ; 
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well. For mine own part, 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, 
Brutus ; 
I said an elder soldier, not a better. 
Did I say better 1 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 191 

Bru. If you did, I care not. 

Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved 
me. 

Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted 
him. 

Cas. I durst not ! 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What ! durst not tempt him ? 

Bru. For your life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love. 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; 
For I am armed so strong in honesty, 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me : — 
I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachms, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants, their vile trash, 
By any indirection. I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions ; 
Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius ? 
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, 
Dash him in pieces. 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not; he was but a fool 
That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my 

heart. 
A friend should bear a friend's infirmities ; 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 



192 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Cas. Come, Antony ! and young Qctavius, come 1 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius : 
For Cassias is a- weary of the world : — 
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; 
Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed. 
Set in a note-book, learned and conned, by rote, 
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep 
My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger, 
And here my naked breast — within, a heart 
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold; 
If that thou be's a Roman, take it forth: 
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart. 
Strike as thou didst at Csesar ; for I know 
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better 
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. 

Bru. Sheath your dagger : 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope: 
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, 
That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 

Cas. Hath Cassius lived 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him ? 

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered, too. 

Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. 

Bru. And my heart, too. 

Cas. O Brutus ! 

Bru. What 's the matter ? 

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me 
When that rash humor which my mother gave me 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and henceforth, 
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He '11 think your mother chides, and leave you so. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 193 

DIALOGUE LXIX. 
THE DECEIVER DETECTED. 

John Steady and Peter Sly. 

{John, walking towards the stage, stumbles.') 

Peter. Ho, John, don't stumble over that log! I 
don't think it a good plan to study my lessons as I go 
to school. 

John. Nor I ; but I am in such a scrape ! 

Peter. What 's the matter 1 

John. Why, I believe I have got the wrong lesson. 

Peter. I guess not. Let me see; where did you 
begin ? 

John. Here, at the top of the page ; and I learned 
over three leaves, down to the end of the chapter. 

Peter. Well, that 's all right. 

John. Are you sure 1 

Peter. Certain, as can be. 

John. Well, now ! I am half glad and half sorry. 
Only think ! there is poor George Stevens has been get- 
ting the wrong lesson. I came by his window, and 
there he was, fagging away ; and, when we came to 
talk about it, we found we had been studying in differ- 
ent places. But he was so sure he was right that I 
thought I must be wrong. 

Peter. I know it ; I know all about it. 

John. Why ! did you tell him wrong ? 

Peter. No, no ; I never tell a lie, you know. But yes- 
terday, when the master gave out the lesson, George was 
helping little Timothy Dummy to do a sum ; so he only 
listened with one ear, and the consequence was, he mis- 
understood what the master said; and then he began 
groaning about such a hard lesson, as we were going 
home ; I laughing to myself all the time. 

John. What ! did you find out his blunder, and not 
set him right 1 

Peter. Set him right ! Not. I. I scolded about the 
hard lesson, too. 

John. There, that 's the reason he was so positive, 
He said you had got the same lesson he had. 
17 



194 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Peter. But I never told him so ; I only let him think 
so. 

John. Ah, Peter, do you think that is right ? 

Peter. To be sure, it is. Don't you know he is at 
the head of the class, and I am next, and if I get him 
down to-day I am sure of the medal 1 A poor chance 
I should have had, if he had not made such a blunder. 

John. Lucky for yon, but very unlucky for him ; and 
I must say, I don't call it fair behavior in you, Peter 
Sly. 

Peter. I don't care what you call it, John. It is none 
of your affair, as I see ; let every fellow look out for him- 
self, and the sharpest one will be the best off I say. 

John. Not in the end, Peter. You are in at the great 
end of the horn, now ; for, by one trick or another, you 
are almost always above the rest of us. But if you don't 
come out at the little end, and come out pretty small, 
too, I am mistaken, that is all. Here comes poor George, 
and I shall spoil your trick, Mr. Peter. 

Peter. That you may, now, as soon as you please. 
If he can get the right lesson decently in half an hour, 
he is the eighth wonder of the world. I shall have him 
down, I am sure of that. 

(Enter George Stevens.) 

John. Here, George, stop a minute: here 's bad news 
for you. 

George. What 's the matter ? — no school to-day ? 

John. School enough for you, I fancy. You have 
been getting the wrong lesson, after all. 

George. O, John, John ! don't tell me so ! 

John. It 's true ; and that mean fellow who stands 
there whittling a stick, so mighty easy, knew it yester- 
day, and would not tell you. 

George. Oh, Peter ! how could you do so? 

Peter. Easily enough. I don't see that I was under 
any obligation to help you to keep at the head of the 
class, when I am the next. 

George. But you know you deceived me, Peter. I 
think it would have been but kind and fair, to have told 
me of my mistake, as soon as you found it out ; but, in- 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 195 

stead of that, you said things that made me quite sure 
I was right about the lesson. 

Peter. But I did not tell you so; you can't say I told 
you so. Nobody ever caught me in a lie. 

John. But you will lie ; — you will come to that, yet, 
if you go on so. 

Peter. Take care what you say, sir ! 

George. Come, come, John : don't quarrel with him. 
He will get the medal now ; and it is a cruel thing, too ; 
for I sat up till eleven o'clock, last night, studying; and 
he knew that my father was coming home from Wash- 
ington to-night, and how anxions I was to have the 
medal. But it can't be helped now. 

Peter. Poor fellow ! don't cry ! I declare there are 
great tears in his eyes. Now it is a pity, really. 

John. For shame, Peter Sly, to laugh at him ! You 
are a selfish, mean fellow, and every boy in school thinks 
so. 

George. Come, John ; I must go and study my lesson 
as well as I can. I would rather be at the foot of the 
class, than take such an advantage of anybody. {Exit 
George.) 

Peter. The more fool he ! Now, he will be in such 
a fluster, that he* will be sure to miss in the very first 
sentence. 

John. There is the master, coining over the hill : now 
if I should just step up to him, and tell him the whole 
story ! 

Peter. You know better than to do that. You know 
he never encourages tale-bearers. 

John. I know that, very well ; and I would almost as 
soon be a cheat as a tell-tale : but the master will find 
you out, yet, without anybody's help : and that will be 
a day of rejoicing to the whole school. There is not a 
fellow in it that don't scorn you, Peter Sly ! 

Peter. And who cares, so long as the master 

John. Don't be quite so sure about the master, either ; 
he never says much till he is ready. But I have seen 
him looking pretty sharply at you, over his spectacles, 
in the midst of some of your clever tricks. He will fetch 
you up, one of these days, when you little think of it. 



196 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

I wish you much joy of your medal, Mr. Peter Sly ! 
You got to the head of the class, last week, unfairly; 
and if your medal weighed as much as your conscience, 
I guess it would break your neck. {Peter sits whittling, 
and humming a tune.) 

Peter. Let me see. I am quite sure of the medal in 
this class ; but there 's the writing. John Steady is the 
only boy I am afraid of. If I could hire Timothy Dum- 
my to pester him, and joggle his desk till he gets mad, 
I should be pretty sure of that, too. 

{Enter Master, taking out his watch.) 

Master. It wants twenty minutes of nine. Peter Sly, 
come to me. I want to have some conversation with 
you, before we go into school. 

Peter. Yes, sir. — {Aside.) What now ? he looks ra- 
ther black. 

Master. For what purpose do you imagine I bestow 
medals, once a week, on the best of my scholars 1 

Peter. To make the boys study, I believe, sir. 

Master. And why do I wish them to study ? 

Peter. Why, — to please their parents, I suppose, sir. 

Master. I wish them to study for the very same rea- 
son that their parents do; — that they may get knowl- 
edge. I have suspected, for some time, that you labor 
under a considerable mistake about these matters. You 
take great pleasure, I presume, in wearing home that 
piece of silver, hanging round your neck; and your 
mother takes pleasure in seeing it. 

Peter. Yes, sir ; she does. 

Master. And why ? What does the medal say to 
her ? Of what is it a sign ? 

Peter. Why, that I am the best scholar in my class. 

Master. Is that what it says 1 I think it only shows 
that you have been at the head of the class oftener, 
during the week, than any other boy. 

Peter. Well, sir ; then, of course, she must think me 
the best scholar. 

Master. She would naturally think so, for so it ought 
to be. But you know, Peter Sly, and I know, that a 
boy who has no sense of honor, no generous feelings, 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 197 

no strictness of principle, may get to the head of his 
class, and get medals for a time, without being the best 
scholar. You know how such a thing can be accom- 
plished, do you not ? and how the medal may be made 
to tell a falsehood at home 1 (Pete?- hongs his head in 
silence.) Shall I tell you how I have seen it done ? By 
base tricks ; by purposely leading others into mistakes ; 
by taking advantage of every slip of the tongue ; by try- 
ing to confuse a boy, who knows his lesson sufficiently 
well, but is timid; by equivocations that are little short 
of lies, and are the forerunners of unblushing lies. Now, 
sir, a boy who does these things is so weak-minded that 
he cannot see the proper use of medals, and thinks he is 
sent here to get medals, instead of being sent to gain 
knowledge to prepare him for active life ; and, under 
this mistake, he goes to work for the empty sign, instead 
of the thing itself That shows folly. Then he becomes 
so intent on his object as to care not by what unjustifia- 
ble means he obtains it. That shows wickedness, — 
want of principle. Have I any boy, in my school, of 
this description '} 

Peter. Yes, sir ; but, forgive me. I did not think you 
ever observed it. 

Master. The artful are very apt to believe themselves 
more successful than they really are. # So you concluded 
you had deceived me, as well as wronged your compan- 
ions ! Your tears are unavailing, if by them you think 
I shall be persuaded to drop the subject here. You 
must be publicly disgraced. 

Peter. What, sir ! when I have not told a lie ? 

Master. You have not spent a day in perfect truth 
for weeks. I have watched you in silence and closely 
for the last month, and I am satisfied that you have not 
merely yielded occasionally to a sudden temptation, but 
that deception is an habitual thing with you ; that, 
through life, you will endeavor to make your way by 
low knavery, if I do not root the mean vice out of you, 
and so save you from the contempt of men, and the an- 
ger of God. Rest assured, your Maker looks on your 
heart as that of a liar. Go into school ; and as I am 
convinced, from reflecting on several circumstances 
17* 



198 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

which took place, that you had no just claim to the 
very medal you now wear, take your place at the foot 
of your class. The reasons of your degradation shall 
be explained in presence of all the scholars. I use the 
principle of emulation in my school, to rouse up talent 
and encourage industry ; but I watch against its abuse. 
I endeavor to unite with this principle a noble and un- 
wavering love of truth, and generous, honorable feel- 
ings ; and I am happy to say, that, except yourself, I 
have no cause to doubt of having succeeded. I know 
not one of your companions, who would not spurn from 
his heart the base manoeuvres which you adopt ; and, 
before this day is over, they shall have fresh motives to 
value fair dealing. You must be made an example of; 
I will no longer permit you to treat your schoolmates 
with injustice, or so as to injure your own soul. Go in ! 



DIALOGUE LXX. 
HUNKS AND BLITHE. 

Blithe. How now, Mr. Hunks ? have you settled the 
controversy with Baxter 1 

Hunks. Yes, to a fraction, upon condition that he 
would pay me six per cent, upon all his notes and bonds, 
from the date until they were discharged. 

Blithe. Then it seems you have brought him to your 
own terms % 

Hunks. Indeed I have ; I would settle with him upon 
no other. Men now-a-days think it a dreadful hardship 
to pay a little interest; and will quibble a thousand ways 
to fool a body out of their just property : but I 've grown 
too old to be cheated in that manner. I take care to 
secure the interest, as well as the principal. And to 
prevent any difficulty, I take new notes every year, and 
carefully exact interest upon interest, and add it to the 
principal. 

Blithe. You don't exact interest upon interest ! That 
would look a little like extortion. 

Hunks. Extortion ! I have already lost more than 
five hundred pounds, by a number of rascally bank- 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 199 

rupts. I won't trust a farthing of my money without 
interest upon interest ! 

Blithe. {Aside.) I see I must humor his foible ; there 's 
no other way to deal with him. 

Hunks. There 's no security in men's obligations, in 
these times. And if I 've a sum of money in the hands 
of those we call good chaps, I 'm more plagued to get it 
than 't is all worth. They would be glad to turn me 
off with mere rubbish, if they could. I 'd rather keep 
my money in my own chest than let it out for such small 
mterest as I have for it. 

Blithe. There 's something, I confess, in your obser- 
vations. We never know when we are secure, unless 
we have our property in our chests or in lands. 

Hunks. That 's true. I 'd rather have my property 
in lands at three per cent, than in the hands of the best 
man in this town at six — it is a fact. Lands will grow 
higher when the wars are over. 

Blithe. You 're entirely right. I believe if I 'd as much 
money as you, I should be of the same mind. 

Hunks. That 's a good disposition. We must all 
learn to take care of ourselves, these hard times. But I 
wonder how it happens that your disposition is so differ- 
ent from your son's ; he 's extremely wild and profuse; 
I should think it was not possible for you, with all your 
prudence and dexterity, to get money as fast as he would 
spend it. 

Blithe. Oh, he's young and airy; we must make 
allowances for such things : we used to do so ourselves 
when we were young men. 

Hunks. No, you're mistaken; I never wore a neck- 
cloth, nor a pair of shoe-buckles, on a week-day, in my 
life. But that is now become customary among the 
lowest rank of people. 

Blithe. You have been very singular ; there are few 
men in our age that have been so frugal and saving as 
you have. But we must always endeavor to conform 
ourselves a little to the custom of the times. My son is 
not more extravagant than other young people of his 
age. He loves to drink a glass of wine sometimes, with 
his companions, and to appear pretty gayly dressed ; but 



200 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

this is only what is natural and customary for every 
one. I understand he has formed some connections with 
your eldest daughter, and I should be fond of the alli- 
ance, if I could gain your approbation in the matter. 

Hunks. The customs of the times will undo us all ; 
there 's no living in this prodigal age. The young peo- 
ple must have their bottles, their tavern dinners, and 
dice, while the old ones are made perfect drudges to 
support their luxury. 

Blithe. Our families, sir, without doubt, would be 
very happy in such a connection, if you would grant 
your consent. 

Hunks. I lose all patience when I see the young beaux 
and fops, strutting about the streets in their lace coats 
and ruffled shirts, and a thousand other extravagant 
articles of expense. 

Blithe. Sir, I should be very glad if you would turn 
your attention to the question I proposed. 

Hunks. There 's one half of these coxcombical spend- 
thrifts that can't pay their taxes, and yet they are con- 
stantly running into debt, and their prodigality must be 
supported by poor, honest, laboring men. 

Blithe. {Aside.) This is insufferable ! I 'm vexed at 
the old fellow's impertinence. 

Hunks. The world has got to a strange pass, a very 
strange pass, indeed; there's no distinguishing a poor 
man from a rich one, only by his extravagant dress and 
supercilious behavior. 

Blithe. I hate to see a man all mouth and no ears. 

Hunks. All mouth and no ears ! Do you mean to 
insult me to my face ? 

Blithe. I ask your pardon, sir ; but I 've been talking 
to you this hour, and you have paid me no attention. 

Hunks. Well, and what is this mighty affair upon 
which you want my opinion ? 

Blithe. It is something you have paid very little at- 
tention to, it seems ; I am willing to be heard in my turn, 
as well as you. I was telling that my son had entered 
into a treaty of marriage with your eldest daughter, and 
I desire your consent in the matter. 

Hunks. A treaty of marriage! why didn't she ask 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 201 

my liberty before she attempted any such thing ? A 
treaty of marriage ! I won't hear a word of it ! 

Blithe. The young couple are very fond of each oth- 
er, and may perhaps be ruined if you cross their incli- 
nations. 

Hunks. Then let them be ruined. I '11 have my 
daughter to know she shall make no treaties without 
my consent. 

Blithe. She 's of the same mind. That 's what she 
wants now. 

Hunks. But you say the treaty is already made ; how- 
ever, I '11 make it over again. 

Blithe. Well, sir ; the stronger the better. 

Hunks. But I mean to make it void. 

Blithe. I want no trifling in the matter ; the subject 
is not of a trifling nature. I expect you will give me a 
direct answer, one way or the other. 

Hunks. If that 's what you desire, I can tell you at 
once. I have two very strong objections against the pro- 
posal ; one is, I dislike your son ; and the other is, I have 
determined upon another match for my daughter. 

Blithe. Why do you dislike my son, pray? 

Hunks. Oh, he 's like the rest of mankind, running 
on in this extravagant way of living. My estate was 
earned too hardly to be trifled away in such a manner. 

Blithe. Extravagant ! I 'm sure he 's very far from 
deserving that character. 'T is true he appears genteel 
and fashionable among people-^ but he 's in good busi- 
ness, and aboveboard, and that 's sufficient for any man. 

Hunks. 'T is fashionable, I suppose, to powder and 
curl at the barber's an hour or two, before he visits his 
mistress ; to pay six pence or eight pence for brushing 
his boots ; to drink a glass of wine at every tavern ; to 
dine upon fowls dressed in the richest manner. And he 
must soil two or three ruffled shirts in the journey. 
This is your genteel, fashionable way, is it 1 

Blithe. Indeed, sir, it is a matter of importance to ap- 
pear decently at such a time, if ever. Would you have 
him go, as you used to upon the same business, dressed 
in a long, ill-shapen coat, a greasy pair of breeches, and 
a slouched hat ; with your oats in one side of your sad- 



202 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

die bags, and your dinner in the other ? This would 
make an odd appearance indeed, in the present age. 

Hunks. A fig for the appearance, so long as I gained 
my point, and saved my money, and consquently my 
credit. The coat you mention is the same I have on 
now. 'T is not so very long as you would represent it 
to be. {Measuring the skirts by one leg.) See, it comes 
but just below the calf. This is the coat that my father 
was married in, and I after him. It has been in the 
fashion five times since it was new, and never was 
altered; and 't is a pretty good coat yet. 

Blithe. You 've a wonderful faculty of saving your 
money and credit, and keeping in the fashion at the 
same time. I suppose you mean by saving your credit, 
that money and credit are inseparably connected. 

Hunks. Yes, that they are ; he that has one need not 
fear the loss of the other. For this reason, I can't con- 
sent to your son's proposal: he 's too much of a spend- 
thrift to merit my approbation. 

Blithe. If you call him a spendthrift for his generos- 
ity, I desire he may never merit your approbation. A 
reputation that 7 s gained by saving money in the man- 
ner you have mentioned, is, at best, but a despicable 
character. 

Hunks. Do you mean to call my character despica- 
ble? 

Blithe. We won't quarrel about the name, since you 
are so well contented with the thing. 

Hunks. You 're welcome to your opinion; I would 
not give a fiddle-stick's end for your good will or ill 
will ; my ideas of reputation are entirely different from 
yours, or your son's, which are just the same; for I find 
you justify him in all his conduct. But as I have de- 
termined upon another match for my daughter, I sha'nt 
trouble myself about his behavior. 

Blithe. But perhaps your proposed match will be 
equally disagreeable. 

Hunks. No, I 've no apprehension of that. He 's a 
person of a fine genius, and an excellent character. 

Blithe. Sir, I desire to know who this person is, that 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 203 

has such a genius and character, and is so agreeable to 
your taste. 

Hunks. 'T is my young cousin Griffin. He 's heir to 
a great estate, you know. He discovered a surprising 
genius almost as soon as he was born. When he was a 
very child, he made him a box, with one small hole in 
it, into which he could just crowd his money, and could 
not get it out again without breaking his box ; by which 
means he made a continual addition till he filled it, 
and 

Blithe. Enough ! enough ! I'vea sufficient idea of 
his character, without hearing another word. But are 
you sure you shall obtain this excellent match for your 
daughter? 

Hunks. Oh, I 'm certain on 't, I assure you, and my 
utmost wishes are gratified with the prospect. He has 
a large patrimony lying between two excellent farms of 
mine, which are at least worth two thousand pounds. 
These I 've given to my daughter ; and have ordered her 
uncle to take the deeds into his own hands, and deliver 
them to her on the day of her marriage. 

Blithe. Then it seems you 've almost accomplished 
the business. But have you got the consent of the young 
gentleman in the affair. 

Hunks. His consent ! What need I care about his 
consent, so long as 1 have his father's] — that 's sufficient 
for my purpose ! 

Blithe. Then you intend to force the young couple to 
marry, if they are unwilling? 

Hunks. Those two thousand pounds will soon give 
them a disposition, I '11 warrant you. 

Blithe. Your schemes, I confess, are artfully concert- 
ed ; but I must tell you, for your mortification, that the 
young gentleman is already married. 

Hunks. What do you say ? already married ! It can't 
be ! I don't believe a syllable on 't ! 

Blithe. Every syllable is true ! whether you believe it 
or not. I received a letter this day from his father ; if 
you won't believe me, you may read it. {Gives him the 
lette?-.) There 's the account, in the postscript. {Points 
to it.) 



204 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

{Hunks reads :) "I had almost forgot to tell you, that 
last Thursday my son was married to Miss Clara Brent- 
ford, and that all parties are very happy in the connec- 
tion." Confusion! {Throws down the letter.) What 
does this mean 1 Married to Clara Brentford ! — this is 
exactly one of cousin Tom's villanous tricks ! He prom- 
ised me that his son should marry my daughter, upon 
condition that I would give her those two farms ; but I 
can't imagine from what stupid motives he has altered 
his mind ! 

Blithe. Disappointment is the common lot of all men ; 
even our surest expectations are subject to misfortune. 

Hunks. Disappointment ! — this comes from a quar- 
ter from which I least expected one. But there are the 
deeds. I '11 take care to secure them again ; 't is a good 
hit that I did not give them to the young rogue before- 
hand. 

Blithe. That was well thought of; you keep a good 
look out, I see, though you can't avoid some disappoint- 
ments. I see nothing in the way now, to hinder my 
son's proceeding; you will easily grant your consent, 
now you 're cut off from your former expectations. 

Hunks. I can't see into this crooked affair — I'm 
heartily vexed at it. What could induce that old villain 
to deceive me in this manner ? I fear this was some 
scheme of my daughter's, to prevent the effect of my 
design. If this is her plan, if she sets so lightly of two 
thousand pounds, she shall soon know what 'tis to want 
it, I '11 promise her. 

Blithe. If you had bestowed your gift without cross- 
ing her inclination, she would have accepted it very 
thankfully. 

Hunks. O, I don't doubt it in the least ; that would 
have been a pretty story indeed ! But since she insists 
upon gratifying a foolish fancy, she may follow her own 
inclination, and take the consequences of it ; I '11 keep 
the favors I meant to bestow on her, for those that know 
how to prize them, and that merit them by a becoming 
gratitude. 

Blithe. But you won't reject her, destitute of a patri- 
mony, and a father's blessing? 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 205 

Hunks. Not one farthing shall she ever receive from 
my hand. Your son may take her, but her person is 
barely all that I '11 give him; he has induced her to dis- 
obey her father, and he shall feel the effects of it. 

Blithe. You 're somewhat ruffled, I perceive ; but I 
hope you '11 recall these rash resolutions in your cooler 
moments. 

Hunks. No, never, I give you my word, and that 's 
as fixed as the laws of the Medes and Persians. 

Blithe. But look ye, sir; here 's another circumstance 
to be attended to ; my son has the deeds already in his 
own hands. 

Hunks. Deeds ! what deeds 1 Those I gave to my 
brother 1 

Blithe. Yes, the very same. 

Hunks. What a composition of villany and witchcraft 
is here ! What ! my deeds given up to your son 7 

Blithe. Yes; your brother thought that my son had 
an undoubted title to them now, since his cousin was 
married, and so he gave them up the next day. 

Hunks. This is intolerable ! I could tear the scalp 
from my old brainless skull ; why had not I more wit 
than to trust them with him? I 'm cheated everyway ! 
I can't trust a farthing with the best friend I have on 
earth ! 

Blithe. That is very true ; 't is no wonder you can't 
trust your best friend. The truth of the case is, you 
have no friend, nor can you expect any, so long as you 
make an idol of yourself, and feast your sordid, avari- 
cious appetite upon the misfortunes of mankind. You 
take every possible advantage, by the present calamities, 
to gratify your own selfish disposition. So long as this 
is the case, depend upon it, you will be an object of uni- 
versal detestation. There is no one on earth who would 
not rejoice to see how you 're taken in. Your daugh- 
ter now has got a good inheritance, and an agreeable 
partner, which you were in duty bound to grant her ; 
but, instead of that, you have been doing your utmost 
to deprive her of every enjoyment in life. (Hunks puts 
his hand to his breast.} I don't wonder your conscience 
18 



206 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

smites you for your villany, Don't you see how justly 
you have been cheated into your duty ? 

Hunks. I'll go this moment to an attorney, and get 
a warrant; I '11 put the villain to jail before an hour is 
at an end ! Oh, my deeds ! my farms ! — what shall I 
do for my farms ! 

Blithe. Give yourself no further trouble about them: 
there ? s no evidence in the case; you must be sensible, 
therefore, an action can't lie. I would advise you to 
rest contented, and learn from disappointments, not to 
place such an exorbitant value upon wealth. In the 
mean time, I should be very glad of your company at 
the wedding. My son and his wife would be very happy 
to see you. 

Hunks. The dragon fly ! away with you, and your 
son, and your son's wife ! Oh, my farms ! what shall 
I do for my farms ! 



DIALOGUE LXXI. 

OR, AVERSION SUBDUED. 

Belford. Pray who is the present possessor of the 
Brookby estate ! 

Arbury. A man of the name of Goodwin. 

Bel. Is he a good neighbor to you? 

Arb. Far from it ; and I wish he had settled a hun- 
dred miles off, rather than come here, to spoil our neigh- 
borhood. 

Bel. I am sorry to hear that ; but what is your objec- 
tion to him ? 

Arb. O, there is nothing in which we agree. In the 
first place, 'he is quite of the other side in politics ; and 
that, you know, is enough to prevent all intimacy. 

Bel. I am not entirely of that opinion; but what else? 

Arb. He is no sportsman, and refuses to join in our 
association for protecting the game. Neither does he 
choose to be a member of any of our clubs. 

Bel. Has he been asked ? 

Arb. I do not know that he has, directly; but he 
might easily propose himself, if he liked it. But he is 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 207 

of a close, unsociable temper, and, I believe, very nig- 
gardly. 

Bel. How has he shown it? 

Arb. His style of living is not equal to his fortune; 
and I have heard of several instances of his attention to 
petty economy. 

Bel. Perhaps he spends his money in charity. 

Arb. Not he, I dare say. It was but last week, that 
a poor fellow, who had lost his all, by a fire, went to 
him with a subscription paper, in which were the names 
of all the gentlemen in the neighborhood ; and the only 
answer he received was, that he would consider of it. 

Bel. And did he consider ? 

Arb. I do not know, but I suppose it was only an 
excuse. Then his predecessor had a park well stocked 
with deer, and used to make liberal presents of venison 
to all his neighbors. But this frugal gentleman has sold 
them all off, and keeps a flock of sheep, instead of them. 

Bel. I do not see much harm in that, now mutton is 
so dear. 

Arb. To be sure, he has a right to do as he pleases 
with his park, but that is not the way to be beloved, you 
know. As to myself, I have reason to think he bears 
me particular ill-will. 

Bel. Then he is much in the wrong, for I presume you 
are as free from ill-will to others as any man living. 
But how has he shown it, pray 1 

Arb. In twenty instances. He had a horse upon sale, 
the other day, to which I took a liking, and bid money 
for it. As soon as he found I wanted it, he sent it off 
to a fair, in another part of the country. My wife, you 
know, is passionately fond of cultivating flowers. Rid- 
ing, lately, by his grounds, she observed something new, 
and took a great longing for a root or cutting of it. My 
gardener mentioned her wish to his, (contrary, I own, to 
my inclination,) and he told his master; but, instead of 
obliging her, he charged the gardener, on no account, to 
touch the plant. A little while ago, I turned off a man, 
for saucy behavior ; but, as he had lived many years 
with me, and was a very useful servant, I meant to take 
him again, upon his submission, which I did not doubt 



208 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

would soon happen. Instead of that, he goes and offers 
himself to my civil neighbor, who, without deigning to 
apply to me, even for a character, engages him immedi- 
ately. In short, he has not the least of a gentleman 
about him, and I would give anything to be well rid oi 
him. 

Bel. Nothing, to be sure, can be more unpleasant, in 
the country, than a bad neighbor ; and I am concerned, 
it is your lot to have one. But there is a man who 
seems as if he wanted to speak with you. 

[A countryman approaches.) 

Arb. Ah ! it is the poor fellow that was burnt out. 
Well, Richard, how do you succeed? what has the sub- 
scription produced you ? 

Richard. Thank your honor, my losses are nearly all 
made up. 

Arb. I am very glad of that ; but when I saw the 
paper last, it did not reach half way. 

Rich. It did not, sir ; but you may remember asking 
me what Mr. Goodwin had done for me, and I told you 
he took time to consider of it. Well, sir; I found that, 
the very next day, he had been at our town, and had 
made very particular inquiry about me and my losses, 
among my neighbors. When I called upon him, a few 
days after, he told me he was very glad to find that I 
bore such a good character, and that the gentlemen 
round had so kindly taken up my case ; and he would 
prevent the necessity of my going any further for relief. 
Upon which he gave me — God bless him! — a draft 
upon his banker for two hundred dollars. 

Arb. Two hundred dollars ! 

Rich. Yes, sir. It has made me quite my own man 
again; and I am now going to purchase a new cart and 
team of horses. 

Arb. A noble gift, indeed! I could never have thought 
it. Well, Richard, I rejoice at your good fortune. I am 
sure you are much obliged to Mr. Goodwin. 

Rich. Indeed I am, sir, and to all my good friends. 
God bless you, sir ! (Exit.) 

Bel. Niggardliness, at least, is not this man's foible. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 209 

Arb. No. I was mistaken in that point. I wronged 
him, and I am sorry for it. But what a pity it is, that 
men of real generosity should not be amiable in their 
manners, and as ready to oblige in trifles as in matters 
of consequence. 

Bel. True; it is a pity, when that is really the case. 

Arb. How much less an exertion it would have been, 
to have shown some civility about a horse, or a flower- 
root ! 

Bel. Speaking of flowers, there is your gardener com- 
ing, with a large one in a pot. 

{Enter Gardener.) 

Arb. Now, James, what have you there 1 

Gardener. A flower, sir, for madam, from Mr. Good- 
win's. 

Arb. How did you come by it 1 

Gard. His gardener, sir, sent me word to come for it. 
We should have had it before, but Mr. Goodwin thought, 
it could not be moved safely. 

Arb. I hope he has more of them. 

Gard. He has only a seedling plant or two, sir ; but, 
hearing that madam took a liking to this, he was re- 
solved to send it to her, — and a choice thing it is ! I 
have a note for madam in my pocket. 

Arb. Well, take it home. {Exit Gardener.} 

Bel. Methinks this does not look like deficiency in 
civility. 

Arb. No ; it is a very polite action ; I cannot deny it, 
and I am obliged to him for it. Perhaps, indeed, he 
may feel he owes me a little amends. 

BeL Possibly. It shows he can feel, most certainly. 

Arb. It does. Ha ! there is Yorkshire Tom coming 
from the fair. I will step up, and speak to him. Well, 
Tom, how have horses gone, at Market-hill ? 

Tom. Dear enough, your honor. 

Arb. How much more did you get for Mr. Goodwin's 
mare than I offered him ? 

Tom. Ah, sir ! that was not an animal for your riding, 
and Mr. -Goodwin well knew it. You never saw such 
a vicious creature. She liked to have killed the groom, 
18* 



210 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

two or three times. So I was ordered to offer her to the 
mail-coach people, and get what I could from them. I 
might have sold her to better advantage, if Mr. Good- 
win would have let me, for she was as fine a creature 
to look at as need be, and quite sound. 

Arb. And was that the true reason, Tom, why the 
mare was not sold to me ? 

Tom. It was, indeed, sir. 

Arb. Then I am highly obliged to Mr. Goodwin. 
{Tom goes.) This was handsome behavior, indeed ! 

Bel. Yes, I think it was somewhat more than polite- 
ness ; it was real goodness of heart. 

Arb. It was. I find I must alter my opinion of him, 
and I do it with pleasure. But, after all, his conduct 
with respect to my servant is somewhat unaccountable. 

Bel. I see reason to think so well of him, in relation 
to most transactions, that I am inclined to hope he will 
be acquitted in this matter, too. 

Arb. There comes Ned, now ; I wonder that he has 
my old livery on yet. 

(Ned approaches, pulling off his hat.) 
Ned. Sir, I was coming to your honor to t 



Arb. What can you have to say to me now, Ned ? 

Ned. To ask pardon, sir, for my misbehavior, and 
beg you to take me again. 

Arb. What ! have you so soon parted with your new 
master ? 

Ned. Mr. Goodwin never was my master, sir. He 
only kept me in his house till I could make up with you 
again ; for he said he was sure you were too honorable 
a gentleman to turn off an old servant, without good 
reason, and he hoped you would admit my excuses, 
after your anger was over. 

Arb. Did he say all that ? 

Ned. Yes, sir ; and he advised me not to delay any 
longer asking your pardon. 

Arb. Well ; go to my house, and 1 will talk with you 
on my return. 

Bel. Now, my friend, what think you of this ? 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 211 

Arb. I think more than I can well express. It will 
be a lesson to me never to make hasty judgments again. 

Bel. Why, indeed, to have concluded that such a man 
had nothing of the gentleman about him, must have 
been rather hasty. 

Arb. I acknowledge it. But it is the misfortune of 
these reserved characters, that they are so long in mak- 
ing themselves known ; though, when they are known, 
they often prove the most truly estimable. I am afraid, 
even now, that I must be content with esteeming him 
at a distance. 

Bel. Why so ] 

Arb. You know I am of an open, sociable disposition. 

Bel. Perhaps he is so, too. 

Arb. If he was, surely we should have been bettei 
acquainted before this time. 

Bel, It may have been prejudice, rather than temper, 
that has kept you asunder. 

Arb. Possibly so. That vile spirit of party has such 
a sway in the country, that men of the most liberal dis- 
positions can hardly free themselves from its influence. 
It poisons all the kindness of society ; and yonder comes 
an instance of its pernicious effects. 

Bel. Who is he 7 

Arb. A poor schoolmaster, with a large family, in the 
next market-town, who has lost all his scholars by his 
activity on our side in the last election. I heartily wish 
it was in my power to do something for him; for he is 
a very honest man, though perhaps rather too ardent. 

( The schoolmaster comes up.) 

Arb. Well, Mr. Penman, how go things with you? 

Penman. I thank you, sir. they have gone poorly 
enough, but I hope they are in the way to mend. 

Arb. I am glad to hear it ; but how ? 

Pen. Why, sir, the free school of Stoke is vacant, and 
I believe I am likely to get it. 

Arb. Ah ! I wonder at that. I thought it was in the 
hands. of the other party. 

Pen. It is sir : but Mr. Goodwin has been so kind as 



212 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

to give me a recommendation, and his interest is suffi- 
cient to carry it. 

Arb. Mr. Goodwin! you surprise me. 

Pen. I was much surprised, too, sir. He sent for me, 
of his own accord, (for I should never have thought of 
asking a favor from him,) and told me he was sorry a 
man should be injured in his profession on account of 
party; and as I could not live comfortably where I was, 
he would try to settle me in a better place. So he men- 
tioned the vacancy of Stoke, and offered me letters to 
the trustees. I was never so affected in my life, sir. I 
could hardly speak, to return him thanks. He kept me 
to dinner, and treated me with the greatest respect. In- 
deed, I believe there is not a kinder man breathing than 
Mr. Goodwin. 

Arb. You have the best reason in the world for say- 
ing so, Mr. Penman. What ! did he converse familiarly 
with you? 

Pen. Quite so, sir. We talked a great deal about 
party affairs in this neighborhood; and he lamented 
much that differences of this kind should keep worthy 
men at a distance from each other. I took the liberty, 
sir, of mentioning your name. He said he had not the 
honor of being acquainted with you ; but that he had a 
sincere esteem for your character, and should be glad 
of any occasion to cultivate a friendship with you. For 
my part, I confess, to my shame, I did not think there 
could have been such a man on that side. 

Arb. Well, good-morning. 

Pen. Your most obedient, sir. {He goes.) 

Arb. (after some silence.) Come, my friend; let us go. 

Bel. Whither? 

Arb. Can you doubt ? To Mr. Goodwin's, to be sure. 
After all that I have heard, can I exist a moment with- 
out acknowledging the injustice I have done him, and 
soliciting his friendship '? 

Bel. I shall be happy, I am sure, to accompany you 
on that errand. But who is to introduce us ? 

Arb. What is form and ceremony, in a case like this ? 
Come, come ! 

Bel. Most willingly. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 213 

DIALOGUE LXXII. 

SCENE FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Quince, Bottom, Flute, Starveling, and Snug. 

Quince. Is all our company here ? 
Bottom. You had best call them, conjunctly and sev- 
erally, generally and specially — that is whereof to call 
them man by man, according to the scrip. 

Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's name in this 
town that is fit to be seen upon the stage before the duke 
and duchess. 

Bot. Good Peter Quince, go to work in a method. 
Begin at the top, and go on to the bottom — that is 
whereof, as a man may say, first tell us what the play 
treats of, then read the names of the actors ; and so your 
business will stand by itself, as regular as a building set 
upon the very pinnacle of its foundation. 

Quin. Why, then, the play is the most delectable and 
lamentable comedy entitled and called the cruel tragedy 
of the death of Pyramus and Thisby. 

Bot. A very moving play, I warrant it. A very deep 
tragedy, I know by the sound of the title of it. Pyra- 
mus and Thisby ! I suppose they are to have their 
throats cut from ear to ear. Well, now, good Peter, call 
forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread your- 
selves out into a clump, every man conjunctly by him- 
self. 

Quin. Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, weaver. 
Bot. Ready ; name my part, and proceed. 
Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. 
Bot. I am to play Pyramus. Well, and who is Pyr- 
amus ? A gentleman, or a simple-man ? 

Quin. Pyramus is a lovyer, and Thisby is his sweet- 
heart. Pyramus kills himself for grief because a lion 
got hold of Thisby's cloak and tore it, which makes Pyr- 
amus conclude as how he had torn her too, and eaten 
her up all but the cloak, whereof he had not touched 
her. So that poor Pyramus loses his life, d' ye see, for 
nothing at all ; whereof you know that it is enough to 
make a man hang himself. 



214 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Bot. What, then, am I to hang myself for vexation 
because I had killed myself for nothing ? 

Quin. No, that is not in the play. 

Bot. Here will be salt tears wept, or I am mistaken. 
And if I be the man that acts this same Pyramus, let the 
ladies look to their eyes. I Aviil condole and congratu- 
late to some tune. 1 will break every heart that is not 
double hooped with flint. I have a main notion of act- 
ing your lovyer that is crossed in love. There is but 
one thing that is more to my humor than your tribula- 
tion lovyer; that is your tyrant — your thundering ty- 
rant. I could play you, for example, I could play you 
such a tyrant as Ercles when he gets on his brimstone 
shirt, and is all on fire, as the unlucky boys burn a 
great rat alive with spirits. And then when he takes 
up little — what's his name? — to squir him off the 
cliff into the sea, O, then 't is fine — " I '11 split 

" The raging rocks ; 
And shivering shocks, 
With thundering knocks, 
Shall break the locks 

Of prison gates : 
And Phibbus' car 
Shall shine from far, 
And kindle war 
With many a scar, 
And make and mar 
The foolish fates. 

There is your right tragedy stuff. This is Ercles' vein 
to a hair; this is your only true tyrant's vein. Your 
lovyer' s vein is more upon the condoling and congratu- 
lating. Now, Peter Quince, name the rest of the players. 

Quin. Francis Flute, bellows-mender. 

Flute. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. Francis, you must take Thisby on you. 

Flute. What, that is to be Nick Bottom's sweetheart, 
and to have my cloak worried alive by the great beast !■ 
Why, Peter, I have a beard a-coming. I shan't make 
a clever woman, as you may say, unless it were Mrs. 
What-d ye-call-her — Mrs. Tibby's mother or aunt. Has 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 215 

not the gentlewoman of the play a mother or aunt that 
appears 1 

Quin. Yes ; but you must do Thisby. You will do 
Thisby well enough, man. You shall do it in a mask. 
Robin Starveling, tailor. 

Star. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. You must play Pyramus' father ; I will play 
Thisby's father ; and Flute must play Thisby. Simon 
Snug, joiner. 

Snug. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. Simon, you must act the part, of the lion. 

Snug. Heh ! the part of the lion do you say, Peter 
Quince 1 Why, I never made a beast of myself in my 
life, but now and then, when I had drunk a cup too 
much. 

Quin. Pshaw, pshaw ! a better man than you, or I 
either, has been made a beast before now — ay, and a 
horned beast, too. But the lion is a royal beast, the 
king of beasts. So, Simon, you must play the part of 
the lion. 

Snug. Well, but an 5 it be a long part, I can't remem- 
ber it, for I have but a poor brain of my own. Let me 
see how many pages. 

Quin. Why, Simon, it is not written. And for the 
matter of that, you may do it off hand. It is nothing 
but roaring. 

Bot. I '11 tell you what, Peter Quince, you were bet- 
ter to let me act the part of the lion. Simon Snug is but 
a hen-hearted sort of a fellow. He won't roar you so 
loud as a mouse in the hole in the wall. But if you 
will let me play the part, I will make such a noise as 
shall do any man's heart good to hear me. I will roar 
that the duke shall cry, " Encore, encore — let him roar 
— once more, once more." 

Quin. But if you were too terrible, you might fright- 
en the duchess, and the ladies, that they would shriek, 
and that were enough to hang us all. 

Bot. Ay, if the duchess and the ladies were frightened 
out of their wits, to be sure, perhaps, they might have 
no more wit than to get us all hanged. But do you 
think, Peter Quince, that I have no more inhumanity in 



216 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

my nature than to frighten people ? I would restrain 
and aggravate my voice that I would roar you as gentle 
as any sucking dove. I would roar you were it any 
nightingale. 

Q?/m. I tell you, Nick Bottom, hold your tongue with 
your roaring, and set your heart at rest. You shall play 
nothing but Pyramus. 

Bot. Well, if I must, I must. What cannot be en- 
dured, you know, must be cured. But what beard were 
I best to play it in ? 

Quin. You must not have on a gray beard, you know, 
because it will not look natural for a man with a gray 
beard to be acting the part of a lovyer. 

Bot. Why, look you, master Peter Quince, I don't 
think it so very unnatural to see people with gray beards 
acting the part of lovyers • at least, I am sure it had not 
need be unnatural, for it is common enough. But how- 
somever, it will look a little unnatural, as you say, to 
see the young woman, Mrs. Tibby, fondling and looking 
sweet upon a man with a gray beard. Wherefore, upon 
mature 'liberation, I will play it in a beard as black as 
jet. 

Quin. Here, then, masters, take your parts, and con 
them over with as much retention as you can, that you 
may be ready to rehearse by to-morrow night. 

Bot. But where must we rehearse, Peter Quince ? 

Quin. Why, you know, if we should go to rehearse 
in a garret, or a malt-loft, we should but draw a mob, 
and perhaps get ourselves taken up for cromancers. 
Therefore we must go to the palace wood, and do it by 
moonlight. Then, you know, we shall do it with dacity 
and imposure of mind, when there is nobody to deplaud 
or to hiss. 

Bot. Right, Peter Quince. We will be ready for you. 

{Exeunt.) 
* 

DIALOGUE LXXIII. 
STUDENT, FARMER, AND MINISTER. 

Student. What can be more calculated to fill the mind 
with pleasure than the study of philosophy and astron- 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 217 

omy ? For while they entertain and enlarge our under- 
standing, they lead us to contemplate the supreme source 
of beanty and harmony, Deity himself. 

Farmer {outside.') Haw buck here, whoe, haw whoe. 
{Enters.') How d' ye do, how d' ye do, my young 
friend? 

Stu. Very well I thank you, how are you ? 

Farm. I don't know, moving 'bout a little, but I don't 
know but I have 'sturbed you ; you seem to be talking 
to yourself. 

Stu. Not in the least, sir. I was contemplating the 
beauties of creation, and admiring the order in which 
the planets move ; but as I am ever fond of parental 
instruction, I shall with no less pleasure listen to your 
observations. 

Farm,. Well, I 'm willing to tell you anything I know, 
and there an't many more sperienced, though I say it 
myself; but I want to know what under heaven there 
is in creation so dreadful, that you make such a bustle 
about ? 

Stu. Sir, I think there is an infinite variety of objects 
to entertain the rational mind, which we may contem- 
plate, and still find ourselves lost in the works of the 
Creator. 

Farm. Why — why — why — I s'pose there 's some- 
thing 'markable 'nough in creation ; but, for my part, I 
can't find anything so dreadful in creation. I find more 
profit in contriving how to fat my pork and beef in one 
year, than in thinking 'bout creation from July to 'tar- 
nity. {Turning around.) Don't let that ox hook the 
old mare, John. 

Stu. Those employments are indeed necessary, and 
truly commendable ; yet I find I have an opportunity to 
improve many superior pleasures, which demand and 
force my admiration. 

Farm. O ! you 're one of them colleges larnt; I want 
to 'spute 'long with some of you noddies, some time ; 
pray let a body hear what them 'markable things be? 

Stu. I think the order of the solar system, the regu- 
larity in which the planets move round the sun, their 
centre, the motion of the earth, which occasions that 
19 



218 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

pleasing variety of seasons, afford a fulness for our con- 
templation. 

Farm. The motion of the world ! — 'pon my word, 
your college wit 's got something new ! Do you mean 
this great masterly world ever moves, or what a plague 
do you mean ? 

Stu. I had reference to the annual and diurnal mo- 
tions of the earth. 

Farm. What under heaven do you mean by your 
ludurnal motion ? That 's something new. 

Stu. I mean revolving on its own axis, from west to 
east, once in twenty-four hours. 

Farm. What ! do you say this great masterly world 
turns over every day, and nobody know nothing 'bout 
it? If this world turns over, what 's the reason my 
mill-pond never got overset, and all the water spilt out, 
long ago ? Do you think my farm ever turned over ? 

Stu. Your farm being connected with the rest of the 
globe, undoubtedly turns with it. 

Farm. What do you say 7 — all the world turns over, 
and my farm turns too? Though I s'pose my farm lies 
about in the middle here, so 't would n't affect that so 
much ; but what if anybody should get close to the edge, 
and it should get to whirling and whirling, I guess 
't would make their hairs whistle, and like enough 
't would throw them off. 

Stu. I don't know what you mean by the edge ; this 
world is round, like an orange. 

Farm. Why, you talk more and more like a fool. 
What ! this world round? Don't you see 'tain't round? 
Why, 't is as flat as a pancake. 

Stu. The greatest philosophers give it as their opin- 
ion that it is round. 

Farm. What do you think I care what your boloso- 
phors say, when I know, "hona pida" 'taint so, and any 
other half-witted fool might know better. 

Stu. Unless you bring some argument to confute 
theirs, I don't see why you should disbelieve them. 

Farm. Why, I know 'tain't so, and that 's reason 
enough. What! this world round, and folks live on 't, 
and turn over too ! That 's a plaguy likely story; but, 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 219 

if you want to hear my arguments, you shall hear them 
in full. How d' ye think folks can stand with their 
heads downwards 1 Why, why, if this world should 
only turn up edgeways, all our houses, and walls, and 
fences, would get slidin, and slidin, and as soon as they 
got to the edge, would fall down, down, down, and 
finally would never stop. That would be plaguy good 
'conomy. 

Stu. The atmosphere turns with us. It would not 
affect us in the least ; our feet would point to the centre, 
as they now do. 

Farm. Why, yes, 'twould; if anybody should get to 
the edge, and it should get to whirling round, 'twould 
give 'em a plaguy hist, and like as not 't would throw 
'em off; and that an't all ; 't would make their heads 
swim so they could n't stand. What d' ye think of that, 
ha ? Why, I tell ye this world is flat, and laid on its 
foundation, or it could n't stand. 

Stu. What supports this foundation % 

Farm. Hem ! hem ! hem ! — why, how a plague do 
you think I know ? But I know 't is so, and that 's rea- 
son enough. But what do you ask such plaguy foolish 
questions for? Anybody knows this great masterly 
world could not stand without it had something to stand 
on. 

Stu. But if it has a foundation, how does the sun get 
through ? 

Farm. Hem ! hem ! hem ! — that 's another plaguy 
foolish question. But there 's no difficulty at all in that. 
Why, there 's a hole made just big enough for the sun 
to get through, without weakening the foundation. 

Stu. But there's one more difficulty; — the sun is 
much larger than this earth, and therefore must destroy 
your foundation. 

Farm. What ! do you say the sun is bigger than this 
great world? You great foolhead ! 'Tain't a bit bigger 
than a cart-wheel. 

Stu. If it be so small, how can it light this whole 
earth, when it is so far from us ? 

Farm. Why, hem! hem! hem! — I don't raly see 
into that myself; but then I don't s'pose 't is such a des- 



220 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

put ways from us; I don't think 't is more than a mile 
and a half, or two miles, or sich a business. But I don't 
quite see how it gets through the foundation, I confess. 

Stu. O, I just see into it ! I guess it don't go through, 
only just gets down behind the trees, out of sight, and 
comes right back again, in the same place, and it is so 
small a thing we can't see it in the night. 

Farm. That 's about as cunning as the rest of your 
talk ; why, you plaguy fool ! you could see the sun in 
the night as plain as you could a star, though it be ever 
so cloudy. 

Stu. Then I don't see but you must give up your — 

Farm. Give it up % Not I ! Think I '11 give up any- 
thing that I know ? I 've, less me see — how old is my 
Nab? — I 've lived in this place sixty-four years; and 
for nine years I was first corporal in the company ; and 
for twelve years I 've been the oldest deacon in the 
church; and I never heard of the world's turning over; 
't is impossible for it to go so fast as to turn over every 
day. 

Stu. But look here, Deacon Homespun : how many 
thousand times faster than for the earth to turn round 
once in twenty-four hours, must the sun go when it is 
so far from us ? 

Farm. Hem ! hem ! hem ! — that 's a plaguy foolish 
question ; I don't quite see into that, myself, but the Bi- 
ble says so, and nobody 's any business to conspute the 
Bible, you young blasphemer, you ! 

Stu. But the Bible was not given to teach philosophy. 
However, it says the earth was turned as clay to seal ; 
therefore, it proves nothing about it. 

Farm. Why, hem ! hem ! hem ! — but what makes 
you think 't is round ? Don't you see 't is flat as far as 
you can see ? 

Stu. For several reasons ; it casts a circular shadow 
when it eclipses the moon, and, besides, it has been sailed 
round several times. 

Farm. You plaguy fool you, the earth never eclipses 
the moon ; and as for sailing round it, they only sail 
round close to the edge, and take plaguy good care that 
the" don't sail off. But if this world turns over once in 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 221 

twenty-four hours, they might chain up a vessel to a 
tree, and it would go round itself every day. 

Stur But how happens it that the moon is always 
eclipsed when the sun is creeping through your under- 
pinning 1 

Farm. Hem ! hem ! Well, I an't goin' to give up 
anything I know ; and I shan't believe this world turns 
round till I find I can stand upon my head, for I know 
the world can't stand without it has something to stand 
on. 

Stu. How do the sun, moon and stars, stay up with- 
out their proper foundation. ? 

Farm. How the old boy do you think I know ? But 
if the world turns round, what 's the reason our minister 
never said nothing 'bout it ? 

Stu. He '11 tell you so now, or he is not fit for a min- 
ister. 

Farm. You 're an impudent scamp ! Do you mean 
to consult me to my face, and a deacon too ? 

Stu. If 3%i are offended, I have no more to say. 

Farm. Well, I '11 make you know better than to con- 
spute me ! {Strikes him.) 

(Enter Minister.) 

Minister. Hold, deacon ! I 'm surprised to find you 
fighting ! 

Farm. I han't been fighting. 

Min. But I saw you righting. 

Farm. Well, he 's a villain, and ought to be kicked 
by every good man, and much more by a deacon ! 

Min. Why, what has he done ? 

Farm. Done ! why he 's done everything. He ought 
to be hung ! 

Min. Let us hear what it is ? 

Farm. Why, he's a blasphemer; he holds to the 
most conbominable doctrine that ever was under heaven. 

Min. But what has he said, Deacon Homespun, that 
so exasperates you 1 

Farm. Why, he 'nies the Bible, and says you an't 
no more fit for a minister than my old one-horned ram. 

Min. Wherein has he denied the Bible, pray ? 
19* 



222 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Farm. Why, he says this world is round, and yet 
folks live on 't; and turns over, too ; and that an't all — 
he 'nies the sun's rising and setting; and if amah won't 
fight when such conbominable doctrine 's held up, he 
can't be a Christian. 

Min. I don't see anything in that, criminal, or con- 
trary to Scripture. 

Stu. Did I not tell you your minister would say so ? 

Farm. Well, you 're all a pack of blasphemers ; you 
'nie the Bible, and I won't stay to talk with you ! 
(Leaves, and is heard in the distance saying :) Haw 
long here, whoe. git up, whoe hish ! 



DIALOGUE LXXIV. 

start fair; or, don't be too positive. 

(Enter Dick and Tom.) 

Dick. I 've seen him, Tom, and he 's a comical chap. 
I advise you to go and see him, by all means. 

Tom. I have seen him. He is a droll looking fellow. 

Dick. Yes, and what a fine set of teeth he has got ! 

Tom. First rate ! and did you notice what long arms 
he had ? 

Dick. No. I thought his limbs very well propor- 
tioned, and his skin smooth and fair. 

Tom. Then you and I don't see alike. I call his 
skin very coarse and rough, and he has got the ugliest 
face I ever set eyes on. 

Dick. Well, Tom, I see there 's no accounting for 
tastes ; but you will admit that he walked off gracefully 
with his cane. 

Tom. His cane ! He had no cane when I saw him, 
and as for walking, he only moved about on his hands 
and feet. 

Dick. That's a likely story, Tom; you don't think 
you can make me believe that, do you ? 

Tom. I don't care whether you do or not. I say he 
walked on all fours. {Enter Jim.) What do you say, 
Jim? 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



223 



Jim. Walk on all fours ! To be sure he does, and 
stands upright too, when he pleases. He is as spry as 
a cat, and sneezes as natural as old granny Darby. 

Tom. There, Dick — I told you so ; but I don't know 
about his being so very spry. 

Jim. He is, though. I have seen him leap three 
times his own height. Then he will lie down, and get 
up, and do many other things, by word of command. 

Dick. Yes, he is used to military commands. How 
nicely he acted General Bonaparte, with his little cocked 
up hat on ! 

Jim. I never saw him rigged up in that fashion. 

Tom. Nor I ; his ugly face must look odd under a 
cocked up hat. 

Dick. So it does; and altogether he is the funniest 
looking little fellow that has been seen in these parts for a 
long time ; and then he weighs but twenty-five pounds ! 

Tom. Twenty-five pounds ! You must be a fool, 
Dick ! — he weighs more than forty pounds. 

Jim. Nonsense, Tom! I'll bet a good large apple 
that he won't weigh twenty pounds. {Harry enters.) 
What do you say, Harry ? 

Harry. I have heard your dispute, boys, and you are 
all mistaken ; nothing easier than to be mistaken. If I 
am any judge of weight, he '11 go over sixty pounds. 

Dick. Why, Harry ! he won't weigh half that. 

Jim. No, nor a quarter ; but I want to know if you 
don't call him spry and active ? 

Harry. No. I call him rather clumsy. 

Tom. Did n't he have monstrous long arms ? 

Harry. Not longer than common, I believe. 

Dick. Did he have his little cane ? 

Harry. No. 

Tom. I want you to tell Dick if he didn't go on his 
hands and feet. 

Harry. No ; he walked upright as anybody else. 

Dick. With his little cocked hat on ? 

Harry. No ; he wore the same old greasy cloth cap 
he always wears. 

Dick. Is not he a genteel looking and well behaved 
young fellow ? 



224 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Harry. I call him an ill-looking fellow, and 

Tom. Did n't I tell you so, Dick 1 

Harry. And as for his behavior, Squire Shed has just 
ordered him to be put in jail 

To?n, Dick, and Jim. In jail ! 

Harry. Yes, and I don't see why you should be so 
surprised about it. It's town talk — the little scamp 
has been stealing. 

All three. Stealing! 

Harry. Yes, stealing. It is as true as that we stand 
here. 

Dick. Well, I, for one, don't believe it. 

Tom. Nor I. 

Jim. Nor I. 

Harry. And I don't want to believe it; but you may 
depend upon it, it is a fact, that Sam was taken up for 
stealing money from Mr. Traffic's drawer. 

All three {looking astonished.) Sam ! Sam who ? 

Harry. Why, Sam Gookin, to be sure. Who have 
you all been talking about, this half hour ? 

Dick. I have been talking about Tom Thumb, the 
little dwarf. 

Jim. And I have been talking about Mr. Hill's little 
dog, Carlo. 

Tom. And I have been talking about the orang-outang 
at the museum. 

All four. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Harry. Well, comrades, let this awkward blunder 
teach us in future to start fair, and know, when we 
begin, what we are to talk about. 

Dick. And let 's keep this affair to ourselves, or we 
shall get laughed at by the whole school. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 225 

DIALOGUE LXXV. 

lochiel's warning. 

Lochiel was the chief of the warlike clan of the Camerons ; and in the fol- 
lowing piece he is supposed to be marching, with the warriors of his clan, to 
join the standard which Charles Stuart, called the Pretender, had raised 
among the Highlands, in his invasion of Scotland in 1745. On his way he 
is met by a Seer or Wizard, who, having, according to the popular supersti- 
tion, the gift of second sight, or prophecy, forewarns him' of the disastrous 
event of the Pretender's enterprise, and exhorts him to return home, and not 
be involved in the certain destruction that awaited the cause and the followers 
of Charles, and which afterwards fell upon them in the battle of Culloden. 

Seer. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight : 
They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown : 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far 1 
'Tis thine, oh Glenullin ! whose bride shall await. 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning : no rider is there; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 
Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead : 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. 

Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling 



seer 



Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

Seer. Ha ! laugh' st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn. 
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, 
From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? 
Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
Ah ! home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit? Why £hoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 
'T is the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie that beacons the darkness of heaven. 
Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return ! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 

Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd 
my clan ; 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, 
And, like reapers, descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ! 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clan-Ranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array 

Seer. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day ! 

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 

But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 

'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 

And coming events cast their shadows before. 

I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 

With the bloodhounds, that bark for thy fugitive king. 

Lo ! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath, 

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 

Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight ; 

Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 

'T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors ; 

Cnlloden is lost, and my country deplores: 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean- wave, banished, forlorn. 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 227 

Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; 

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; 

His death-bell is tolling ; oh ! mercy, dispel 

Yon sight, that, it freezes my spirit to tell ! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale 

Lochiel. Down, soothless in suiter ! I trust not the 

tale. 
Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their 

gore, 
Like ocean weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 
Shall, victor, exult, or in death be laid low, 
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! 
And leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. 



DIALOGUE LXXVI. 
PEDANTRY. 

CHARACTERS. 

Digit, a mathematician. 
Trill, a musician. 

Sesquipedalia, a linguist and philosopher. 
Drone, a servant of Mr. Morrell, in whose house 
the scene is laid. 

{Digit, alone.) 

Digit. If theologians are in want of a proof that man- 
kind are daily degenerating, let them apply to me, Ar- 
chimedes Digit. I can furnish them with one as clear as 
any demonstration in Euclid's third or fifth book ; and 
it is this, — the sublime and exalted science of Mathe- 
matics is falling into general disuse. O that the patri- 
otic inhabitants of this extensive country should suffer 
so degrading a circumstance to exist ! Why, yesterday. 



228 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

I asked a lad of fifteen, which he preferred, Algebra or 
Geometry ; and he told me — O horrible ! he told me he 
had never studied them ! I was thunderstruck, I was 
astonished, I was petrified ! Never studied Geometry ! 
never studied Algebra ! and fifteen years old ! The dark 
ages are returning. Heathenish obscurity will soon 
overwhelm the world, unless I do something immedi- 
ately to enlighten it ; and for this purpose I have now 
applied to Mr. Morrell, who lives here, and is celebrated 
for his patronage of learning and learned men. (^4 knock 
at door.) Who waits there ? 

(Enter Drone.) 

Is Mr. Morrell at home 1 

Drone {speaking very slow.) Can't say ; s'pose he is ; 
indeed, I am sure he is, or was just now. 

Digit. Why, I could solve an equation while you are 
answering a question of five words. I mean if the un- 
known terms were all on one side of the equation. Can 
I see him ? 

Drone. There is nobody in this house by the name 
of Quation. 

Digit. {Aside.) Now, here 's a fellow that cannot dis- 
tinguish between an algebraic term and the denomina- 
tion of his master! — I wish to see Mr. Morrell upon an 
affair of infinite importance. 

Drone. O, very likely, sir. I will inform him that 
Mr. Quation wishes to see him {mimicking) upon an 
affair of infinite importance. 

Digit. No, no. Digit — Digit. My name is Digit. 

Drone. O, Mr. Digy-Digy ! Very likely. {Exit 
Drone.) 

Digit {alone.) That fellow is certainly a negative 
quantity. He is minus common sense. If this Mr. 
Morrell is the man I take him to be, he cannot but pa- 
tronize my talents. Should he not, I don't know how I 
shall obtain a new coat. I have worn this ever since I 
began to write my theory of sines and co-tangents ; and 
my elbows have so often formed right angles with the 
plane surface of my table, that a new coat or a parallel 
patch is very necessary. But here comes Mr. Morrell. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 229 

( Enter Sesquipedalia. ) 

Sir, (bowing low) I am your most mathematical servant. 
I am sorry, sir, to give you this trouble : hut an affair of 
consequence — (palling the rags over his elbows) — an 
affair of consequence, as your servant informed you — 

Sesquipedalia. Servus non est mihi, Domine ; that is, 
I have no servant, sir. I presume you have erred in 
your calculation; and 

Digit. No, sir. The calculations I am about to pre- 
sent you are founded on the most correct theorems of 
Euclid. You may examine them, if you please. They 
are contained in this small manuscript. {Producing a 
folio.) 

Sesq. Sir, you have bestowed a degree of interruption 
upon my observations. I was about, or, according to 
the Latins, futurus sum, to give you a little information 
concerning the luminary who appears to have deceived 
your vision. My name, sir, is Tullius Maro Titus Cris- 
pus Sesquipedalia; by profession a linguist and philoso- 
pher. The most abstruse points in physics or meta- 
physics are to me transparent as ether. 1 have come to 
this house for the purpose of obtaining the patronage of 
a gentleman who befriends all the literati. Now, sir, 
perhaps I have induced conviction, in mente tua, that is, 
in your mind, that your calculation was erroneous. 

Digit. Yes, sir, as to your person, I was mistaken ; 
but my calculations, I maintain, are correct, to the tenth 
part of a circulating decimal. 

Sesq. But what is the subject of your manuscript ? 
Have you discussed the infinite divisibility of matter '? 

Digit. No, sir: I cannot reckon infinity; and I have 
nothing to do with subjects that cannot be reckoned. 

Sesq. Why, I can reckon about it. I reckon it is di- 
visible ad infinitum. But perhaps your work is upon 
the materiality of light; and if so, which side of the 
question do you espouse ? 

Digit. O, sir, I think it quite immaterial. 

Sesq. What ! light immaterial ! Do you say light is 
immaterial ? 

Digit. No ; I say it is quite immaterial which side of 
20 



230 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

the question I espouse. I have nothing to do with it. 
And besides, I am a bachelor, and do not mean to es- 
pouse anything at present. 

Sesq. Do you write upon the attraction of cohesion ? 
You know matter has the properties of attraction and 
repulsion. 

Digit. I care nothing about matter, so I can find 
enough for mathematical demonstration. 

Sesq. I cannot conceive what you have written upon, 
then. O, it must be the centripetal and centrifugal mo- 
tions. 

Digit {peevishly.) No, no! I wish Mr. Morrell 
would come ! Sir, I have no motions but such as I can 
make with my pencil upon my slate, thus. {Figuring 
upon his hand!) Six, minus four, plus two, equal eight, 
minus six, plus two. There, those are my motions. 

Sesq. O, I perceive you grovel in the depths of Arith- 
metic. I suppose you never soared into the regions of 
Philosophy. You never thought of the vacuum which 
has so long filled the heads of philosophers. 

Digit. Vacuum ! {Putting his hand to his forehead.) 
Let me think. 

Sesq. Ha ! what ! have you got it sub manu, that is, 
under your hand 1 Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Digit. Eh! under my hand? What do you mean, 
sir ? — that my head is a vacuum ? Would you insult, 
me, sir ? insult Archimedes Digit ? Why, sir, I '11 cipher 
you into infinite divisibility. I '11 set you on an inverted 
cone, and give you a centripetal and centrifugal motion 
out of the window, sir ! I '11 scatter your solid contents ! 

Sesq. Da veniam, that is, pardon me, it was merely 
a lapsus linguce, that is, 

Digit. Well, sir, I am not fond of lapsus linguces, 
at all, sir. However, if you did not . mean to offend, I 
accept your apology. I wish Mr. Morrell would come. 

Sesq. But, sir, is your work upon mathematics ? 

Digit. Yes, sir. In this manuscript I have endeav- 
ored to elucidate the squaring of the circle. 

Sesq. But, sir, a square circle is a contradiction in 
terms. You cannot make one. 

Digit. I perceive you are a novice in this sublime 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 231 

science. The object is to find a square which shall be 
equal to a given circle ; which I have done by a rule 
drawn from the radii of the circle and the diagonal of 
the square. And by my rule the area of the square will 
equal the area of the circle. 

Sesq. Your terms are to me incomprehensible. .Diag- 
onal is derived from the Greek. Dia and goneo, that is, 
" through the corner." But I don't see what it has to do 
with a circle ; for if I understand aright, a circle, like a 
sphere, has no corners. 

Digit. You appear to be very ignorant of the science 
of numbers. Your life must be very insipidly spent in 
poring over philosophy and the dead languages. You 
never tasted, as I have, the pleasure arising from the 
investigation of a difficult problem, or the discovery of 
a new rule in quadratic equations. 

Sesq. Poh ! poh ! ( Turns round in disgust, and hits 
Digit with his cane.) 

Digit. O, you villain ! 

Sesq. I wish, sir, 

Digit. And so do I wish, sir, that that cane was raised 
to the fourth power, and laid over your head as many 
times as there are units in a thousand. Oh ! oh ! 

Sesq. Did my cane come in contact with the sphere 
of attraction around your shin ? I must confess, sir — 

(Enter Trill.) 

But here is Mr. Morrell, Salve Domine ! Sir, your ser- 
vant. 

Trill. Which of you, gentlemen, is Mr. Morrell ? 

Sesq. O ! neither, sir. I took you for that gentleman. 

Trill. No, sir ; I am a teacher of music. Flute, harp, 
viol, violin, violoncello, organ, or anything of the kind; 
any instrument you can mention. I have just been dis- 
playing my powers at a concert, and come recommended 
to the patronage of Mr. Morrell. 

Sesq. For the same purpose are that gentleman and 
myself here. 

Digit {still rubbing his shin.) Oh ! oh ! 

Trill. Has the gentleman the gout ? I have heard 



232 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

of its being cured by music. Shall I sing you a tune ? 
Hem ! hem ! Faw 

Digit. No, no ; I want none of your tunes. I 'd make 
that philosopher sing, though, and dance, too, if he 
had n't made a vulgar fraction of my leg. 

Sesy. In veritate, that is, in truth, it happened forte, 
that is, by chance. 

Trill (talking to himself.) If B be flat, me is in E. 

Digit. Ay, sir; this is only an integral part of your 
conduct ever since you came into this house. You have 
continued to multiply your insults in the abstract ratio 
of a geometrical progression, and at last have proceeded 
to violence. The dignity of Archimedes Digit never 
experienced such a reduction descending before. 

Trill (to himself.) Twice fa sol la, and then comes 
me again. 

Digit. If Mr. Morrell does not admit me soon, I '11 
leave the house, while my head is on my shoulders. 

Trill. Gentlemen, you neither keep time nor chord. 
But if you can sing, we will carry a trio before we go. 

Sesq. Can you sing an ode of Horace or Anacreon ? 
I should like to hear one of them. 

Digit. I had rather hear you sing a demonstration of 
the forty-seventh proposition, first book. 

Trill. I never heard of those performers, sir ; where 
did they belong? 

Sesq. They did belong to Italy and Greece. 

Trill. Ah ! Italy ! There are our best masters, such 
as Morelli and Fuselli. Can you favor me with some 
of their compositions. 

Sesq. O yes ; if you have a taste that way, I can fur- 
nish you with them, and with Virgil, Sallust, Cicero, 
Csssar, and Quintillian; and. I have an old Greek. Lexicon 
which I can spare. 

Trill. Ad libitum, my dear sir, they will make a 
handsome addition to my musical library. 

Digit. But, sir, what pretensions have you to the 
patronage of Mr. Morrell? I don't believe you can 
square the circle. 

Trill. Pretensions, sir ! I have gained a victory over 
the great Tantamarrarra, the new opera singer, who 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 233 

pretended to vie with me. 'T was in the symphony of 
Handel's Oratorio of Saul, where you know everything 
depends upon the tempo ginsto, and where the primo 
should proceed in smorgando, and the secondo, agitati. 
But he was on the third ledger line, I was an octave 
below, when, with a sudden appoggiatura, I rose to D 
in alt, and conquered him. 

(Enter Drone.) 

Drone. My master says how he will wait on you, 
gentlemen. 

Digit. What is your name, sir ? 

Drone. Drone, at your service. 

Digit. No, no ; you need not drone at my service. 
A very applicable name, however. 

Sesq. Drone 7 That is derived from the Greek Draon, 
that is, flying or moving swiftly. 

Trill. He seems to move in andante measure, that is, 
to the tune of Old Hundred. 

Drone. Very likely, gentlemen. 

Digit. Well, as I came first, I will enter first. 

Sesq. Right. You shall be the antecedent, I the sub- 
sequent, and Mr. Trill the consequent. 

Trill. Right. I was always a man of consequence, 
— Fa, sol, la, Fa, sol, &c. {Exeunt.') 



DIALOGUE LXXVn. 
GENTLEMAN AND IRISH SERVANT. 

(Gentleman seated at a table ; Irish servant enters, in search 
of employment.) 

Irishman (taking off his hat, and boicing.) An' plaze 
yer honor, would ye be after giving employment to a 
faithful servant, who has been recimminded to call upon 
yer honor"? 

Gentleman. You appear to have walked some dis- 
tance ; does it rain 2 

Ir. Never a drop, plaze yer honor. 
20* 



234 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Gent, {looking out of window.) Ah ! I see the sun 
shines now ; post nubila Phoebus. 

It. The post has not yet arrived, sir. 

Gent. What may I call your name 1 

Ir. My name is Michael Carries, and I have always 
heen called Mike, and you are at liberty to call me that 
same. 

Gent. Well, Mike, who was your last master ? 

If. Mr. Jacobs, plaze yer honor ; and a nicer man 
never brathed. 

Gent. How long did you live with Mr. J. 1 

Ir. In troth, sir, I can't tell. I passed my time so 
pleasantly in his sarvice, that I niver kept any account 
of it, at all, at all. 1 might have lived with him all the 
days of my life, and a great deal longer, if I had plazed 
to do so. 

Gent. Why, then, did you leave him ? 

Ir. It was by mutual agrament. The truth was, a 
slight difference arose between us, and he said I should 
not live with him longer ; and at the same instant, you 
see, I declared I would not live with him : so we parted 
on good terms, — by agrament, you see. 

Gent. Was not your master a proud man ? 

Ir. Indade he was — bless his honest sow! ! he would 
not do a mane act for the univarse. 

Gent. Well, Mike, how old are you now ? 

Ir. I am just the same age of Patrick O'Leary; he 
and I were born the same wake. 

Gent. And how old is he ? 

Ir. He is just my age. He and I are just of an age, 
you see, only one of us is older than the other ; but which 
is the oldest I cannot say, neither can Patrick. 

Gent. Were you born in Dublin ? 

Ir. No, sir, plaze yer honor, though I might have been 
if I had desired ; but as I always preferred the country, 
I was born there • — and, plaze God, if I live and do well, 
I '11 be buried in the same parish I was born in. 

Gent. You can write, I suppose. 

Ir. Yes, sir ; as fast as a dog can trot. 

Gent. What is the usual mode of travelling in Ire- 
land ? 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 235 

Ir. Why, sir, if you travel by water, you must take 
a boat; and if you travel by land, either in a chaise or 
on horseback ; and they who cannot afford either of them 
are obliged to trudge it on foot), which, to my mind, is 
decidedly the safest and chapest mode of moving about. 

Gent. And which is the pleasantest season for trav- 
elling? 

Ir. Faith, sir, I think that season in which a man 
has most money in his pocket. 

Gent. I think your roads are passably good. 

Ir. They are all quite passable, if you only pay the 
toll-man. 

Gent. I understand you have many black cattle in 
Ireland 1 

Ir. Faith, we have plenty of every color. 

Gent. I think you have too much rain in your coun- 
try. 

Ir. So every one says ; but Sir Boyle has promised to 
bring in an act of parliament in favor of fair weather, 
and I am sure the poor hay-makers and turf-cutters will 
bless him for it. It was he that first proposed that eve- 
ry quart bottle should hold just two pints. 

Gent. As you have many fine rivers, I suppose you 
have an abundance of nice fish. 

Ir. x4.nd well may you say that ; for water never wet 
better ones. Why, master, I won't tell you a lie; but 
if you were at the Boyne you could get salmon and trout 
for nothing; and, if you were at Ballyshanny, you'd 
get them for much less. 

Gent. Well, you seem to be a clever fellow, and if 
you will call again to-morrow, I will see what I can do 
for you. 

Ir. Pace to your good sowl ! I will surely do so. 
(Boiving, leaves.) 

DIALOGUE LXXVIII. 
FRENCHMAN AND HIS ENGLISH TUTOR. 

Frenchman. Ha, my good friend ! I have met with 
one difficulty — one ver' strange word. How you call 
h-o-u-g-h, ha 1 



236 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Tutor. H-o-u-g-h spells huff. 

Fr. Ver' good, huff ; and snuff, him what you put in 
de nose, you spell s-n-o-u-g-h, ha 1 

Tu. O, no. no ! S-n-u-double-f spells snuff. The 
truth is, words ending in ough are not very regular in 
their pronunciation. 

Fr. Ah, ver' good! 'Tis beau' ful language! H-o-u-g-h 
is huff. I will remember him. And c-o-u-g-h is cuff. 
I have one bad cuff, ha ? 

Tu. No, that is wrong. We say kauf, not cuff. 

Fr. Kauf? Ver' well. Huff and kauf, me no for- 
get ; and, pardon me, how you call him what makes 
bread with ; d-o-u-g-h, duff, ha ? 

Tu. No, not duff 

Fr. Not duff? Ah, monsieur, I understan' — it is 
dauf, ha? 

Tu. No ; d-o-u-g-h spells doe. 

Fr. Doe ? Ver' fine language, sure ! wonderful lan- 
guage ! D-o-u-g-h is doe, and t-o-u-g-h is toe, certainment. 
The bread is made of doe, and my beef-steak is very toe, 
ha? 

Tu. O, no, no ! You should say tuff, and not toe. 

Fr. Tuff? Then him what the farmer uses, what 
you call him, p-1-o-u-g-h — pluff? ha? no? Me no get 
him right ? Is his name ploe, like doe ? One ver' fine 
ploe, ha? 

Tu. You are still wrong, my friend. P-1-o-u-g-h 
spells plow. 

Fr. Plow ! ha ? Ver' wonderful language ! Me un- 
derstand him ver' soon. Plow, doe, kauf, and tuff. 
Then one more; r-o-u-g-h — what you call General 
Taylor ; Rauf and Ready, ha ? No ! certainment, then, 
it must be Row and Ready, ha ? 

Tu. No. R-o-u-g-h spells ruff. 

Fr. Ruff, ha ? Let me not forget him. R-o-u-g-h is 
ruff, and b-o-u-g-h is buff, ha ? 

Tu. No ; bow, and not buff. 

Fr. Ver' wonderful language, sure ! And what you 
call t-h-r-o-u-g-h ? — throw ? or thruff? or what you call 
him? 

Tu. T-h-r-o-u-g-h spells thru. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 237 

Fr. Ah, 't is ver' simple, sure — wonderful language ! 
but I have had e-n-o-u-g-h, what you call him, ha ? 

Tu. Enuff. But that you may not forget these ter- 
minations, it may be well for you to write them, as I 
spell and pronounce them. 

( Tutor spells and Frenchman writes as follows?) 

H-o-u-g-h — huff' 
C-o-u-g-h — kauf. 
P-1-o-u-g-h — plow. 
D-o-u-g-h — doe. 
R-o-u-g-h — ruff. 
S-1-o-u-g-h — slou and sluf. 
L-o-u-g-h — lok. 
T-h-r-o-u-g-h — thru. 
T-o-u-g-h — tuf. 
T-h-o-r-o-u-g-h — thur-ro. 
B-o-u-g-h — boio. 
H-i-c-c-o-u-g-h — hik-kup. 
B-o-r-o-u-g-h — bur-o. 
T-r-o-u-g-h — trof. 
E-n-o-u-g-h — enuf. 
F-u-r-1-o-u-g-h — fur-lo. 

Fr. Ennff, sure ! Ver' strange language ! You cer- 
tainment have given me e-n-o-u-g-h for dis one lesson, 
and now I will take what de soldiers call one f-u-r- 
1-o-u-g-h. 



DIALOGUE LXXIX. 
THE FANCY DRESS DEJEUN&. 

(Mrs. Leo Hunter, attired as Minerva, is receiving the 
company, who make their appearance in various fancy dresses.) 

Servant. Mr. Pickwick, ma'am. 
Mrs. Leo Hunter. What ! — where ? 
Mr. Pickioick. Here. 

Mrs. L. H. Is it possible that I have really the grat- 
ification of beholding Mr. Pickwick himself? 

Mr. P. No other, ma'am. Permit me to introduce 



238 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

my friends, Mr. Tupman — Mr. Winkle — Mr. Snod- 
grass — to the authoress of " The Expiring Frog." 

Mrs. L. H. Mr. Pickwick, I must make you promise 
not to stir from my side the whole day. There are hun- 
dreds of people here that I must positively introduce you 
to. 

Mr. P. You are very kind, ma'am. 

Mrs. L. H. In the first place, here are my little girls ; 
I had almost forgotten them. 

Mr. Pick. They are very beautiful. 

Mr. Pott. They are very like their mamma, sir. 

Mrs. L. H. Oh, you naughty man ! 

Mr. Pott. Why, now, my dear Mrs. Hunter, you 
know that when your picture was in the exhibition of 
the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired 
whether it was intended for you, or your youngest 
daughter; for you were so much alike, there was no 
telling the difference between you. 

Mrs. L. H. Well, and if they did, why need you re- 
peat it before strangers. Count ! Count ! 

Count. Ah ! you want me % 

Mrs. L. H. I want to introduce two very clever peo- 
ple to each other. Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure 
in introducing you to Count Smorltork. {She adds, in 
a whisper :) The famous foreigner — gathering materi- 
als for his great work on England. — Hem ! Count 
Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick. 

Count S. What you say, Mrs. Hunt ? Pig Yig, or 
Big Vig — what you call lawyer, eh ? I see ; that is it. 
Big Yig. {Proceeds to write in his tablets.) 

Mrs. L. H. No, no, Count ! Pick- wick. 

Count S. Ah ! ah ! I see. Peek — Christian name ; 
Weeks — surname : good, ver' good ! Peek Weeks. 
( Writes.) How do you do, Weeks 1 

Mr. P. Very well, I thank you. Have you been long 
in England 1 

Count S. Long — ver' long time — fortnight — more. 

Mr. P. Do you stay here long 1 

Count S. One week. 

Mr. P. You will have enough to do to gather all the 
materials you want in that time. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



239 



Count S. Eh 1 — they are gathered. 

Mr. P. Indeed ! 

Count S. (tapping his forehead.*) They are here. — 
Large book at home, — full of notes, music, picture, sci- 
ence, potry, poltic — all tings. 

Mr. P. The word Politics, sir, comprises in itself a 
difficult study, of no inconsiderable magnitude. 

Count S. Ah ! (Drawing out his tablets again.) 
Yer' good! Fine words to begin a chapter. ''Chapter 
Forty-seven. Pol tics. The word Poltic surprises by 
himself " (Writes*) 

Mrs. L. H. Count ! 

Count S. Mi Hunt — 

Mrs. L. H. I'm. is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. 
Pickwick's, and a poet. 

Count S. (Takes out his tablets again.) Stop. 
Head, Potry ; chapter, Literary Friends ; name, Snow- 
grass. Yer' good. Introduced to Snowgrass — great 
poet — friend of Peek Weeks — by Mrs. Hunt, which 
wrote other sweet poem — what is that name 1 Frog 
— Perspiring Frog — ver' good — ver' good, indeed. 



DIALOGUE LXXX. 
CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES. 

( Snarl, a merchant, at his desk, with cloth lying upon the 
counter. Enter Spunge.) 

Spunge. Your most obedient, sir. Have I the honor 
of addressing my friend, Mr. Snarl 1 

Snarl. My name, sir, is Snarl ; but I do not recognize 
your countenance. u Eight and six are fourteen " 

Sp. I dare say. It is many years since we sailed in 
the same steamboat to Albany. I now put up with law- 
yer Keen, of your city, and 

Sn. I am lawyer Keen's and your humble servant, 
but as we have no business together that I know of, you 
will excuse me. ''Carry five." 

Sp. I find, sir, upon looking over my late father's 



240 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



papers, an account of a debt left unpaid, and am 
come 

Sn. It is no business of mine; I owe no man. "Two 
and seven " 

Sp. I wish I could say as much for myself, but I find 
that my father was indebted to yours, in the small bal- 
ance of fifty pounds, and as a man of honor, I am come 
to discharge the debt. 

Sn. {Rising.) My dear sir, ten thousand pardons for 
my forgetfulness ! I remember you perfectly now. Yes, 
you lived in Kinderhook, and we were messmates. 
Pray, sir, be seated. {Hands a chair.) 

Sp. Dear sir, if those who are indebted to me had a 
little of my punctuality, I should be a richer man than 
I am; but to have my name in one's book is a thing I 
can't bear. 

Sn. And yet the generality of people bear it very 
patiently. 

Sp. I am upon thorns, in a manner, while I owe one 
farthing; and for that reason I am come to know when 
you '11 be at leisure to receive the money. 

Sn. No time like the present. 

Sp. True. I have it at home, ready told; but as I 
have the management of my father's effects only as a 
guardian for my daughter Harriet, it 's proper that the 
other guardians should be by at the payment. 

Sn. Very true, sir ; then what do you think of to- 
morrow at three o'clock ? 

Sp. With all my heart. But I have interrupted yon, 
perhaps. {Rises.) Why, sir, I imagine you do more 
business than all the shopkeepers in this part of the coun- 
try put together. 

Sn. I can't complain. 

Sp. No, you have such a way with you that those 
who buy once can't, for the blood of them, help coming 
to you again. A pretty bit of cloth this. 

Sn. Very pretty. 

Sp. One meets, in your shop, such a generosity of 
treatment, and politeness of behavior, that makes it pleas- 
anter to pay money than to receive it elsewheie. The 
wool seems tolerably fine. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 241 

Sn. Right Spanish wool, every hair of it, sir. 

Sp. So I thought; now we talk of Spanish wool, if I 
am not mistaken, Mr. Snarl, you and I went to school 
together formerly. 

Sn. What, to old Ironfist 1 

Sp. The same ; you were a handsome youth, I re- 
member. 

S?i. So my mother always said. 

Sp. Egad, for old acquaintance' sake, you and I must 
eat a bit of dinner together to-day. We have a line 
goose at home, that a client sent Mr. Keen from Norfolk. 

Sn. A goose ! that 's my favorite dish. 

Sp. And my wife shall dress it by a family receipt. 
It 's a treasure — that receipt 's a perfect treasure ! Her 
uncle, the late Alderman Dumpling, passed through the 
whole circle of corporation honors, and died mayor, by 
virtue of that receipt. 

Sn. Ay, ay ! 

Sp. Then Mrs. Keen will be happy to see you ; now 
I think on 't, I promised her that you should have my 
custom for the future ; and to make a beginning, I don't 
care if I have the pattern of a suit of clothes from you 
now. 

Sn. Very happy to accommodate you, sir ; what color 
would you choose ? 

Sp. Color ! why here 's a pretty one enough^ to my 
mind, sir. 

Sn. Very pretty, indeed, sir ; it 's an iron gray. Shall 
I cut off the quantity you want, to have it ready % 

Sp. To have it ready ; no, Mr. Snarl, pay as you go, 
that 's my rule ; pay as you go. 

Sn. Good, an excellent rule it is too. 

Sp. Do you remember, Mr. Snarl, the evening we 
were together at the Goose and Gridiron, in Albany ? 

Sn. What, the evening I so roasted the parson ? 

Sp. The same. You were very severe on him. You 
had a world of wit. Pray what must I pay you for a 
yard of this cloth 1 

Sn. Why, sir, another should pay me nineteen and 
sixpence ; but come, you shall have it at nineteen shil- 
21 



242 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

lings. Now I think of it, here 's your quantity, ready 
cut. 

Sp. Ready cut ! That 's lucky, indeed. (Snatches 
up the cloth.) 

Sn. Stop a moment, till I measure it before you. 

Sp. O fie ! do you think I have any doubt of you ? 

Sn. But the price. 

Sp. Poh ! I never haggle with a friend ; I leave all 
that to you. Good-day. 

Sn. Let my shopman carry it over, and bring back 
the 

Sp. No, no ; don't take him from business. It is but 
a step, you know, and I 'd carry it twice as far to oblige 
you. Compliments to Mrs. Snarl ; — good-by to you, 
good-by, good-by. {Exit.) 



DIALOGUE LXXX1. 
INTERVIEW BETWEEN SAM WELLER AND HIS FATHER. 

(Mr. Welter, sen., is seated at a table, on which are a pot of 
ale, a round of beef, fyc, when his son enters the room.) 

Welter, sen. Mornin' Sammy. 

Sam. ( Walks up to the pot of ale, and takes a long 
draught, by way of reply.) 

W. sen. {Looking into the pot.) Wery good power 
o' suction, Sammy. You 'd ha' made an uncommon fine 
oyster, Sammy, if you 'd been born in that station o' 
life. 

Sam. (Attacking the cold beef.) Yes; I des-say I 
should ha' managed to pick up a respectable livin'. 

W. sen. I am wery sorry, Sammy, — wery sorry to 
hear from your lips, as you let yourself be gammoned 
by that 'ere mulberry man. I always thought, up to 
three days ago, that the names of Veller and gammon 
could never come into contract, Sammy — never. 

Sam. Always exceptin' the case of a widder, of 
course. 

W. sen. Widders, Sammy — vvidders are 'ceptions to 
ev'ry rule. I have heerd how many ord'nary women 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 



243 



one widder 's equal to, in pint o' com in' over you. I 
thinks it's five-and-twenty, but I don't rightly know 
whether it an't more. 

Sam. Well, that 's pretty well. 

W. sen. Besides, that \s a wery different thing. You 
know what the counsel said, Sammy, as defended the 
gen'lem'n as beat his wife with the poker, venever he 
got jolly. "And arter all, my Lord," says he, "it's a 
amiable weakness." So I says respectin' widders, Sam- 
my ; and so yon '11 say, ven you gets as old as I am. 

Sam. I ought to ha' know'd better, I know. 

W. sen. Ought to ha' know'd better ! Ought to ha' 
know'd better! Why, I know a young un ? as hadn't 
had half, nor a quarter, your eddication, — as has n't 
slept about the market — no, not six months, — who 'd 
ha' scorned to be let in such a vay ; scorned it, Sammy. 

Sam. Well, itt-s no use talking about it now. It 's 
over, and can't be helped, and that 's one consolation, as 
they always says in Turkey, ven they cuts the wrong 
man's head off. It 's my innings now, gov'nor ; and as 
soon as I catches hold of this here Trotter, I '11 have a 
good 'un. 

W. sen. I hope you will, Sammy ; I hope you will. 
Here 's your health, Sammy, and may you speedily vipe 
off the disgrace as you 've inflicted on the family name. 
And now, Sammy, I 'm a goin' to leave you, my boy, 
and there 's no telling ven I shall see you again. Your 
mother-in-law may ha' outlived me, or a thousand things 
may have happened by the time you next hear any news 
o' the celebrated Mr. Teller, of the Bell Savage. The 
family name depends wery much upon you, Samivel, 
and I hope you '11 do wot 's right by it. Upon all little 
pints o' breedin' I know I may trust you as well as if it 
was my own self. So I 've only this here one little bit 
of adwice to give you. If ever you gets to up'ards o' 
fifty, and feels disposed to go a marryin' anybody — no 
matter who — jist you shut yourself up in your own 
room, if you 've got one, and pison yourself off-hand. 
Hangin' 's wulgar; so don't you have nothin' to say to 
that. Pison yourself, Samivel, my boy, — pison your- 
self, and you '11 be glad on it arterwards. 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

DIALOGUE LXXXII. 

i 

THE BOTTLE CONJURER. 

Sidrophel {Alone.) I begin to feel ashamed of my- 
self, that there is so much rascality in the world, and, 
as yet, I have had no hand in it. 

(Enter Ralph.) 

Ralph. Sir, you appear to be very anxious and pen- 
sive. Allow me to ask if anything disagreeable has 
happened to you. 

Sid. Why, sir, I am in deep speculation on a very 
important matter. The truth is, I wish, like thousands 
of my fellows in this world, to get money without earn- 
ing it ; but hitherto I have been unable to hit on any 
expedient for the purpose. 

R. Well, I think I can aid you. My impression is 
that you would make a first rate conjurer. 

Sid. Conjurer, eh ? Who would be fool enough to 
believe anything of that 1 

R. Can you be so ignorant of mankind 1 Do you not 
know that if one man has courage to cheat, he will find 
a thousand dupes to practise on ? 

Sid. Yes, but I can make no calculations on the stars. 

R. That is a matter of no kind of consequence. Oth- 
er conjurers know no more of that than you do. Only 
tell something extraordinary, and you will find people 
enough to believe you and patronize you 

Sid. But how shall I commence the business ? 

R. O, that will be an easy matter. Take this bottle, 
[gives him a bottle] and fill it with any kind of liquor, 
and call it Elixir Planetarium ; then proclaim that he 
who tastes this liquor will immediately become sensible 
of the influence of the planets ; and that by tasting it you 
can tell the fortunes of all who may apply to you. You 
will find a multitude of believers. 

Sid. I think there is something in what you say, and 
we will try the experiment. I will get all things ar- 
ranged, while you go and spread a number of surprising 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 245 

stories among the people, in order to prepare them for 
the sport, and send them to me. 

R. In this case you shall give me half of the profits. 

Sid. Certainly ; only do the best you can to circulate 
wonderful stories about my abilities, and that with as 
little delay as possible. Be sure and tell wonderful sto- 
ries. 

R. Yery well ; only be certain to have things ready 
as quick as 3^011 can, for I shall, without doubt, send you 
a customer very soon. {Exit Ralph.) 

(Sidrophel prepares a mixture, with which he fills a 
bottle, and then seats himself at the table. ) 

Sid. {Alone.) I believe I am now ready for profes- 
sional calls, and I trust I may receive, as well as merit, 
a fair share of patronage. {Enter a farmer.) Ah ! here 
comes some one, now. 

Farmer. I am informed that you have the wonderful 
power of discovering lost things and foretelling future 
events. 

Sid. It is a part of my duty to disclose unknown 
affairs: but I depend upon the influence of the planets. 

Farm. I called to see if you could tell me where to 
find my gray mare. I own as good a mare as man 
could wish to have, and she has been taken since yes- 
terday afternoon. 

Sid. From whence was she taken ] 

Farm. From my pasture. I saw fresh tracks in the 
dew about daylight. 

Sid. I hold in my hand a bottle of the Elixir Planet- 
arium, a liquor which distils from the moon, and is 
squeezed out of the moss which grows on the tops of old 
ruined castles, and moss-grown steeples. By tasting it, 
I gain the influence of the stars, by which alone I am 
able to discover lost things, tell people's fortunes, &c., 
(fee. The liquor in my possession was formerly owned 
by Peter the Hermit, who preached up the crusades for 
the recovery of Jerusalem. It descended from him to 
Dr. Faustus, and from the doctor to the famous Rad- 
cliffe of London, and to me as the seventh son of a 
seventh son, which tends greatly to increase its powers 
and add to its virtues. In order to assist you, I must 
21* 



246 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

taste the liquor. {Tastes, and looks marvellously wise.) 
Your horse, sir, was taken from your pasture between 
the hour of midnight and morning. Have you searched 
all the public roads 'I 

Farm. Yes, we have ; and nothing has been seen or 
heard of her anywhere. 

Sid. The reason is plain ; your mare has got into 
some by-place. {Looks very wise and important.) 

Farm. That may be so. 

Sid. Are there not some young ladies in your neigh 
borhood who receive the very particular attentions of 
some of the young gentlemen ; id est, who are courted ') 

Farm. Yes, sir ; three or four. 

Sid. And do not their " beaux " live remote from the 
public roads ? 

Farm. Some of them do, quite so. 

Sid. Well, sir, I see how the matter is, clearly enough. 
The planet Venus rules in the evening now. That in- 
duced the youngsters to go "a courting." In the latter 
part of the night, id est, towards morning, Mercury's 
influence becomes predominant. This planet impels to 
thieving; and, under its control, the young men, on their 
return home, stole your mare. They have left her in a 
by-place, and there you will find her. 

Farm. Right ; and what shall I pay for your services ? 

Sid. About five dollars will compensate me for what 
I have done ? 

Farm. Yery reasonable, indeed. I would have given 
five times as much, rather than not find my mare ; for 
she is a very valuable beast, I assure you. I shall ever 
feel grateful for your assistance, and shall do all I can 
to make your merits known. Good-by, sir. {Exit.) 

Sid. {Alone.) Well, I have really made a good be- 
ginning, and so far as I can see I am in a fair way to 
obtain wealth and gain a reputation. But there comes 
a lady, and I must be ready to wait upon her. 

(Enter Miss Quickset.) 

Miss Quickset. Are you the gentleman who foretells 
events ? 

Sid. Under the influence of the stars, madam, I am 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES, 247 

able to know many things that are unknown to common 
people. Can I be of any service to you ? 

Miss Q. My object in calling is to obtain your assist- 
ance. Mr. Credulous has been quite attentive to me of 
late, and if I can manage to conceal my faults from him, 
I think I may secure him for a husband, — a thing I 
very much desire, and more especially as I am fast ap- 
proaching a certain age, or, perhaps, I should say, a 
very uncertain age. 

Sid. Well, madam, make known your faults, and I 
will see what I can do for you. 

Miss Q. Of course you will regard all I say as strictly 
confidential. To tell the truth, I am very quick-tem- 
pered, or passionate. 

Sid. Have you no other faults ? 

Miss Q. Why, yes. I am rather lazy, — do not like 
to rise early in the morning. 

Sid. Have you told me all ? 

Miss Q. Yes, excepting that I am fond of tattling, 
and like to use my tongue pretty freely. 

Sid. That is bad, truly, and I fear the power of all 
the planets combined would not be able to check or con- 
trol a woman's tongue. 

Miss Q. O, sir, I have no desire to have you confine 
my tongue ; indeed, I would not have you do that for all 
the husbands in the world. All I wish is to have you 
prevent Mr. C.'s knowing about it until I get him fairly 
secured ; and after that, he must look out for himself — 
that 's all. 

Sid. Your demand is rather extravagant, but I will 
do the best I can. By the help of this [drinks from bot- 
tle] I hope to be assisted to comply with your wishes. 

Miss Q. O, I know you will succeed if you try. 
How much shall I pay you ? ( Takes out purse.) 

Sid. My uniform charge is five dollars. It is just 
the same for preventing a thing's being known, as for 
discovering what is unknown. 

Miss Q. O, sir, I am perfectly satisfied with your 
charge. I would give ten times as much rather than 
have Mr. C. know my faults. I trust your skill will 
be properly appreciated and rewarded. Good-by, sir. 
(Exit.) 



248 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

(Enter Mr. Credulous.) 

Mr. Credulous. Having been informed that you are 
able to make known future events, and to give the char- 
acters of people, I have called to consult you upon an 
affair of importance. 

Sid. It is ever my pleasure to assist my friends, and 
render the public a service ; and I shall be most happy 
to serve you at this time. What can I do for you 1 

Mr. C. My case is this : I feel quite an attachment 
for a young lady, Miss Quickset by name, and I wish to 
learn all I can respecting her disposition and character, 
before I decide to marry her. Will you tell me all you 
may know respecting her ? 

Sid. Most willingly. But before I can know more 
than others, I must take a draught of the Elixir Planet- 
arium. {Drinks from bottle, and looks wonderfully 
wise.) I am sorry to say that the young lady is not 
possessed of those qualities which will tend to make her 
an agreeable and useful companion. She is exceedingly 
passionate, very indolent, and, worse than all, a notori- 
ous tattler. My advice to you is not to marry her. 

Mr. C. I have the utmost confidence in you, and 
shall follow your advice. {Taking out pocket-book.) 
How much shall I pay you for the very true and impor- 
tant information you have given ? 

Sid. I charge only five dollars. My chief desire is to 
do good, and therefore I work cheap. 

Mr. C. There is the money, sir, and I pay it most 
cheerfully ; though no money can be an equivalent for 
such services as you render. Good-by, sir. {Exit.) 

Sid. {Alone.) Well, I can see no reason why I may 
not become as rich as the richest. Certainly I have 

made a good beginning, and {Ralph enters.) Ah, 

Ralph ! I am glad to see you. Your scheme was a good 
one, and is working well. 

Ralph. I am aware of that. Why, you can hardly 
imagine what a notoriety you have gained. But how 
much money have you taken ? — for that, after all, is 
the main thing. 

Sid. I have received fifteen dollars, which, according 
to agreement, we are to divide between us. My impres- 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 249 

sion is, that we shall do a most profitable business. 
You will of course continue as a silent partner in the 
firm, though I trust you will not keep silence concerning 
my wonderful abilities. 

R. I will see to that. And, in addition to what I 
have already done, may it not be well to get a few 
"puffs" in the newspapers? I can write some that 
will cause people to come " with a rush." 

Sid. Well thought of. You manage that as you may 
think best, for I see you understand the true "modus 
operandi." 

R. I '11 do my best; never fear for me. But be sure 
and not forget to tell something marvellous to every 
customer. Common-place matter, and mere facts, are 
too prosy for people now-a-days ; therefore don't omit 
the wonderful things. If we only manage right, we are 
on the sure road to wealth and fame. 

Sid. If experience is of any value, you need have no 
apprehensions on my account : for I trust I shall grow 
in my profession, and gain new insight, daily, into the 
wonderful subject of astrology. 



DIALOGUE LXXXIII. 
SCENE FROM THE RIVALS. 

Sir Anthony Absolute and Captain Absolute. 

Captain Absolute. Sir Anthony, I am delighted to see 
you here, and looking so well ! Your sudden arrival at 
Bath made me apprehensive for your health. 

Sir Anthony. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. 
What, you are recruiting here, hey '}■ 

Capt. A. Yes, sir ; I am on duty. 

Sir A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I 
did not expect it ; for I was going to write to you on a 
little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering 
that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not be 
with you long. 

Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more 
strong and hearty; and I pray fervently that you may 
continue so. 



250 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 

Sir A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all 
my heart. Well, then, Jack, I have been considering 
that I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague 
you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the 
income of your commission, and what I have hitherto 
allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your 
spirit. 

Capt. A. Sir, you are very good. 

Sir A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have 
my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, 
therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence. 

Capt. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, sir, 
I presume you would not wish me to quit the army % 

Sir A. Oh ! that shall be as your wife chooses. 

Capt. A. My wife, sir ! 

Sir A. Ay, ay; settle that between you ; settle that 
between you. 

Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you. say ? 

Sir A. Ay, a wife : why, did not I mention her before ? 

Capt. A. Not a word of her, sir. 

Sir A. Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of 
is by a marriage ; the fortune is saddled with a wife ; but 
I suppose that makes no difference. 

Capt. A. Sir, sir, you amaze me! 

Sir A. What 's the matter with the fool ? — just now 
you were all gratitude and duty. 

Capt. A. I was, sir; you talked to me of indepen- 
dence and a fortune, but not one word of a wife. 

Sir A. Why, what difference does that make ? Sir, 
if you have the estate, you must take it with the live 
stock on it, as it stands. 

Cap t. A. Pray, sir, who is the lady ? 

Sir A. What 's that to you, sir ? Come, give me 
your promise to love and to marry her, directly. 

Capt. A. Sure, sir, that 's not very reasonable, to sum- 
mon my affections for a lady I know nothing of! 

Sir A. I am sure, sir, 't is more unreasonable in you, 
to object to a lady you know nothing of 

Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once 
for all, that in this point I cannot obey you. 

Sir A. Hark ye, Jack; I have heard you, for some 



SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 251 

time, with patience; I have been cool, — quite cool: but 
take care ; you know I am compliance itself, when I am 
not thwarted ; no one more easily led, when I have my 
own way; but don't put me in a frenzy. 

Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey 
you. 

Sir A. Now, hang me, if ever I call you Jack again, 
while I live. 

Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me. 

Sir A. Sir, I won't hear a word, not a word ! not one 
word ! So give me your promise by a nod, and I '11 tell 
you what, Jack, — I mean, you dog, — if you don't, 
by 

Capt. A. What, sir ! promise to link myself to some 
mass of ugliness ? to 

Sir A. Zounds ! sirrah ! the lady shall be as ugly as 
I choose : she shall have a hump on each shoulder ; she 
shall be as crooked as the crescent ; her one eye shall roll 
like the bull's in Cox's museum; she shall have a skin 
like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew. She shall be 
all this, sirrah ! Yes, I '11 make you ogle her all day, 
and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty. 

Capt. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed ! 

Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy ! no grinning, 
jackanapes ! 

Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor 
for mirth in my life. 

Sir A. 'T is false, sir ! I know you are laughing in 
your sleeve; I know you '11 grin when I am gone, sir- 
rah! 

Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. 

Sir A. None of yonr passion, sir! none of your vio- 
lence, if you please ; it won't do with me, I promise you. 

Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I was never cooler in my life. 

Sir A. 'T is a confounded lie ! I know you are in a 
passion in your heart ; I knoAv you are a hypocritical 
young dog; but it won't do. 

Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word 

Sir A. So you will fly out ! Can't you be cool, like 
me 1 What good can passion do ? Passion is of no 
service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate ! 



252 SCHOOL DIALOGUES 

There, you sneer again ! Don't provoke me ! But you 
rely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog ! 
You play upon the meekness of my disposition ! Yet 
take care ; the patience of a saint may be overcome at 
last! But mark! I give you six hours and a half to 
consider of this ; if you then agree, without any condi- 
tion, to do everything on earth that I choose, why, con- 
found you ! I may in time forgive you. If not, don't en- 
ter the same hemisphere with me ! don't dare to breathe 
the same air, or use the same light, with me ; but get an 
atmosphere and a sun of your own ! I '11 strip you of 
your commission! I'll lodge a five-and-three-pence in 
the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest. 
'I'll disown you! I '11 disinherit you! and hang me if 
ever I call you Jack again ! (Exit.) 

Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father ! I kiss your 
hands. 



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